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hae: 

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meme nen 


THE 


VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE 


ac Re ae eee ee 


fAlovels by Alexandre Dumas. 


H 


‘a 6 ae 


MONTE CRISTO 


TWENTY: YEARS AFTER 


THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONN 


CHICOT, THE JESTER 
THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN 


THE CONSPIRATORS 


E 
MARGUERITE DE VALOIS 
THE REGENT’S DAUGHTER 


=f . 
SSS 
aS SSS 


MEMOIRS OF A PHYSICIAN 
THE QUEEN'S NECKLACE 
TAKING THE BASTILE 

THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY 


: 


ti 
| 
THE THREE MUSKETEERS 


Sern Berm ne er eee a | 


THE 


VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE 


OR 


meee VORR S LAT ER 


BEING THE COMPLETION OF 


“THE THREE MUSKETEERS” AND “TWENTY YEARS AFTER” 


BY 


AD EXANDRE DUMAS 


AUTHOR OF ‘‘ MONTE CRISTO” 


VOL, 1. 


LONDON 
wEeearnGre ROUTLEDGE AND-SONS 
BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL 
GLASGOW, MANCHESTER, AND NEW YORK 


GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS 
Publishers 
LONDON. < . . Broapway, LupcaTe Hitt, E.G 
GLASGOW , .«. » 335, ST. VINCENT STREET. 
MANCHESTER , 76, Mostey STREET. 
NEW YORK . « 9, LAFAYETTE PLACE, 


O ” 
NE 
EFO 
~ yy 
v Y | 
D 
ot 
: SOC 1c LS, 
a 
CHAP. 
I. THE LETTER - - - - - - - - 
Il. THE MESSENGER) - : - - - - = - 
Il], THE INTERVIEW - - - - : - - - 
IV. FATHER AND SON - - - - - - - - 
V. IN WHICH SOMETHING WILL BE SAID OF CROPOLI—OF 
CROPOLI AND OF A GREAT UNKNOWN PAINTER-~ - 
VI. THE UNKNOWN - - - - - - - - 
VII PARRY - - - - - - - - - - 
VII]. WHAT HIS MAJESTY KING LOUIS XIV. WAS AT THE AGE 
OF TWENTY-TWO - - - - - 
IX. IN WHICH THE UNKNOWN OF THE HOSTELRY OF “LES 
MEDICI” LOSES HIS INCOGNITO - ‘ a - 
X. THE ARITHMETIC OF M. DE. MAZARIN - 4 : - 
XI. MAZARIN’S POLICY - - - . . = - 
XII. THE KING AND THE LIEUTENANT - - < - 
XIII. MARY DE MANCINI - - - - < - - 
XIV. IN WHICH THE KING AND THE LIEUTENANT EACH GIVE 
PROOFS OF MEMORY - - - . ; - 
XV. THE PROSCRIBED - - - - . = 
XvI. “REMEMBER!” - - - - - - - - 
XVII, IN WHICH ARAMIS IS SOUGHT FOR, AND ONLY BAZIN 
| “Te ey Rs alee epg lee lit Reticence 
& ‘VIII. IN WHICH D’ARTAGNAN SEEKS FOR PORTHOS, AND ONLY 
2 FINDS MOUSQUETON - - a pe 2 - 
g XIX. WHAT D’ARTAGNAN WENT TO DO IN PARIS - - 
XX. OF THE SOCIETY WHICH WAS FORMED IN THE RUE DES 
LOMBARDS, AT THE SIGN OF THE “ PILON D’OR,” TO 
oT: CARRY OUT THE IDEA OF M. D’ARTAGNAN) - - 
» _.. XXI, IN WHICH D’ARTAGNAN PREPARES TO TRAVEL FOR THE 
R HOUSE OF PLANCHET AND COMPANY “ = 5 
WY xxi. D’ARTAGNAN TRAVELS FOR THE HOUSE OF PLANCHET 
k AND COMPANY - « 4 a ° 2 4 
XXIII. IN WHICH THE AUTHOR, VERY UNWILLINGLY, IS FORCED 


TO DO A LITTLE HISTORY - - - - = 


. THE TREASURE - - - - aie “ na = 


THE MARCH - - - “ - ~ - - + 


- HEART AND MIND - - ” - - = 3 = 
. THE NEXT DAY = - = . = ~ - 2 


SMUGGLING - - «© - 


1183183 


vi CONTENTS. 

CHAP. 

XXIX. IN WHICH D’ARTAGNAN BEGINS TO FEAR HE HAS PLACED 

HIS MONEY AND THAT OF PLANCHET IN THE SINK- 

ING FUND - - - - - - - - 

XXX. THE SHARES OF THE COMPANY OF PLANCHET AND CO. 

RISE AGAIN TO PAR - - - - - = 24 

XXXI. MONK REVEALS HIMSELF - - - Ft _ = 

XXXII ATHOS AND D’ARTAGNAN MEET ONCE MORE AT’ THE 

HOSTELRY OF THE “CORNE DU CERF” - e - 

XXXIIi. THE AUDIENCE - - - - - 5 = - 

XXXIV. OF THE EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES « - - - 

XXXV. UPON THE CANAL - - - “ ° - - 

XXXVI. HOW D’ARTAGNAN DREW, AS A FAIRY WOULD HAVE 

DONE, A COUNTRY-SEAT FROM A DEAL BOX - - 

XXXVII. HOW D’ARTAGNAN REGULATED THE PASSIVE OF THE 

COMPANY BEFORE HE ESTABLISHED ITS ACTIVE - 

XXXVIII. IN WHICH IT IS SEEN THAT THE FRENCH GROCER HAD 

ALREADY BEEN ESTABLISHED IN THE SEVENTEENTH 

CENTURY - - - = 2 3 ‘ i 

XXXIX. MAZARIN’S GAMING PARTY - vs - = le & 

XL. AN AFFAIR OF STATE - - - - “ ms é 

KL. TARE RECITAL = - - . 4 % : 

XLII IN WHICH MAZARIN BECOMES PRODIGAL “ = ‘ 

-XLIII. GUENAUD - . = A s a ‘a " 

XLIV. COLBERT S - ‘ - ‘ re ¥ E 5 

XLV. CONFESSION OE A MAN OF WEALTH - * : S 

XLVI. THE DONATION - - = a 3 s, Rae 

XLVII. HOW ANNE OF AUSTRIA GAVE ONE PIECE OF ADVICE 

TO LOUIS XIV., AND HOW M. FOUQUET GAVE HIM 


ANOTHER a s _ 2 Z g x i 
XLVIII. AGONY- : a é ‘ : j 4 : 
XLIX. THE FIRST APPEARANCE OF COLBERT - é 3g R 


Le THE FIRST DAY OFTHE ROYALTY OF LOUISm@it - 
LI. A PASSION - - - - - - * - “ 


LII. DDPARTAGNAN’S LESSON - - 2 - « ‘ Z 
LIII. THE KING - - - - : 2 xs : K 
LIV. THE HOUSES OF M. FOUQUET “ * a é 
LV. THE ABBE FOUQUET - - - At é 


LVI. THE WINE OE M. DE LA FONTAINE - - . i 
LVI]. THE GALLERY OF SAINT-MANDE - - r = . 
LVIII. THE EPICUREANS  - - = = = a a é 
LIX. A QUARTER OF AN HOUR’S DELAY - - A - 

LX. PLAN OF BATTLE - = < - - - = i 
LXI. THE CABARET OF THE “IMAGE DE NOTRE DAME’ S 
LXII. VIVE COLBERT ! - - - - - - - - 
LXIII. HOW THE DIAMOND OF M. D’EYMERIS PASSED INTO THE 

HANDS OF M. D’ARTAGNAN - - - - 

LXIV. OF THE NOTABLE DIFFERENCE D’ARTAGNAN FINDS 
BETWEEN MONSIEUR THE INTENDANT AND MONSIEUR 

THE SURINTENDANT - - 2 = - - 

LXV. PHILOSOPHY OF THE HEART AND MIND - - ‘ 
LXVI. THE JOURNEY - - - : s . = : 
LXVII, HOW D’ARTAGNAN BECAME ACQUAINTED WITH A POET, 
WHO HAD TURNED PRINTER FOR THE SAKE OF 

: PRINTING HIS OWN VERSES) - - - - “ 


PAGE 


CHAP. 
LXVIII. 


LXIX, 


Tox, 


LXXI. 
LXXII. 
LXXIII, 


LXXIV. 


LXXV. 
CLXXVI. 


LXXVII. 
LXXVIII. 


LXXIX, 
LXXX, 
LXXXI, 
LXXXII, 
LXXXIII. 
LXXXIV. 
LXXXV, 
LXXXVI. 
LXXXVII. 
LXXXVIII. 


LXXXIX. 
> oe 
XCI. 


XCII. 
XCIII. 


XCIV. 
XCV. 
XCVI. 
SVIT 
ACV ITT. 
XCIX. 
C. 
CI. 
CII. 


CIIl. 


CIV. 


CONTENTS. 


D’ARTAGNAN CONTINUES HIS INVESTIGATIONS - - 
IN WHICH THE READER, NO DOUBT, WILL BE AS 
ASTONISHED AS D’ARTAGNAN WAS TO MEET WITH 
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE - - - - - 
WHEREIN THE IDEAS OF D’ARTAGNAN, AT FIRST VERY 
TROUBLED, BEGIN TO CLEAR UP A LITTLE - - 
A PROCESSION AT VANNES - - - - - 
THE GRANDEUR OF THE BISHOP OF VANNES - - 
IN WHICH PORTHOS BEGINS TO BE SORRY FOR HAVING 
COME WITH D’ARTAGNAN - - ~ - - 
IN WHICH D’ARTAGNAN MAKES ALL SPEED, PORTHOS 
SNORES, AND ARAMIS COUNSELS~ - - - - 
IN WHICH M. FOUQUET ACTS - - - - - 
IN WHICH D’ARTAGNAN FINISHES BY AT LENGTH PLA- 
CING HIS HAND UPON HIS CAPTAIN’S COMMISSION 


A LOVER AND A MISTRESS = = = > . 
IN WHICH WE AT LENGTH SEE THE TRUE HEROINE 

OF THIS HISTORY APPEAR - - = = = 
MALICORNE AND MANICAMP - - = = = 
MANICAMP AND MALICORNE = - - ° ~ 
THE COURTYARD OF THE HOTEL GRAMMONT ° - 
THE PORTRAIT OF MADAME = . = L = 
HAVRE ° - - - - “ - - - 
AT SEA - - - - - - - - - 
THE TENTS - = ~ sa “ “ =, < 
NIGHT - - - - - ” - - 


FROM HAVRE TO PARIS - - = - 
AN ACCOUNT OF WHAT THE CHEVALIER DE LORRAINE 
THOUGHT OF MADAME - - - - - - 
THE SURPRISE OF MADAME DE MONTALAIS . - 
THE CONSENT OF ATHOS - - - - . - 
MONSIEUR BECOMES JEALOUS OF THE DUKE OF BUCK- 
INGHAM - - - - - - - - = 
FOR EVER - - - - - - - - - 
KING LOUIS XIV. DOES NOT THINK MADEMOISELLE 
DE LA VALLIERE EITHER RICH ENOUGH OR PRETTY 
ENOUGH FOR A GENTLEMAN OF THE RANK OF THE 
VICOMTF. DE BRAGELONNE - - - - - 
SWORD-THRUSTS IN THE WATER - - - . 
SWORD-THRUSTS IN THE WATER (CONCLUDED) - - 
BAISEMEAUX DE MONTLEZUN - - - - - 
THE KING’S CARD-TABLE - - - - “ 
M. BAISEMEAUX DE MONTLEZUN’S ACCOUNTS) - - 
THE BREAKFAST OF MONSIEUR DE BAISEMEAUX - 
THE SECOND FLOOR OF LA BERTAUDIERE - - - 
THE TWO FRIENDS - - - ~ - - - 
MADAME DE BELLIERE’S PLATE - - - - - 
THE DOWRY - - - . - - - - 
LE TERRAIN DE DIEU - - - - - - - 
THREEFOLD LOVE ~ - - - - - ~ 


. M. DE LORRAINE’S JEALOUSY - - - - - - 
. MONSIEUR IS JEALOUS OF GUICHE - - . - 
. THE MEDIATOR” - - - - - - - - 
. THE ADVISERS - - - - - - . ° 


429 


470 


497 


Vil 
/ CHAP. 
C2. 
CXI. 
CXII. 
CXIII. 


CXIV, 
CXV. 
CXVI. 
CXVII. 
CXVIII. 
CXIX. 
CXX. 


CXXI. 
CXXII. 
CXXIII. 
CXXIV. 
CXXV. 


CXXVI. 


CXXVII. 
CXXVIII. 
CXXIX. 


CXXX. 
CXXXI. 
CXXXII. 


CXXXIIL 


CONTENTS, 


FONTAINEBLEAU — - - = = “ <a e 
THE BATH - - “ e 2 s ge cape f ay 
THE BUTTERFLY-CHASE - e ~ + * e 5 
WHAT WAS CAUGHT IN THE HAND AFTER THE BUTTER- 

FLIES 
THE BALLET OF THE SEASONS - : @ = 2 
THE NYMPHS OF THE PARK OF FONTAINEBLEAU 
WHAT WAS SAID UNDER THE ROYAL OAK - - - 
THE KING’S UNEASINESS - - - eS a a 
THE KING’S SECRET s - cS i z 2 
COURSES DE NUIT - = . = a i f 
IN WHICH MADAME ACQUIRES A PROOF THAT LISTENERS 

CAN HEAR WHAT IS SAID - es 2 3 2 
ARAMIS’S CORRESPONDENCE - - = * as S 
THE ORDERLY CLERK - 2 = “ es Z 
FONTAINEBLEAU AT TWO O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING - 


THE LABYRINTH - 2 ‘i is re z = 
HOW MALICORNE HAD BEEN TURNED OUT OF THE 
HOTEL OF THE “ BEAU PAON” 2 ss ss e 
WHAT ACTUALLY DID OCCUR AT THE INN CALLED THE 
“BEAU PAON” f : . “ ¥ Z 


A JESUIT OF THE ELEVENTH YEAR = + - vd 
THE STATE SECRET = - “ cs - - > 
MISSION - = = - - = - - = 
HAPPY AS A PRINCE - - = - - ~ - 
STORY OF A DRYAD AND OF ANAIAD - = - - 
CONCLUSION OF THE STORY OF A NAIAD AND OF A 

DRYAD - - - - - - - 
ROYAL PSYCHOLOGY = - = - = - : 


see 


VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


CHAPTER LH 
THE LETTER. 


TOWARDS the middle of the month of May, in the year 1660, at nine 
o’clock in the morning, when the sun, already high in the heavens, was 
fast absorbing the dew from the ravenelles of the castle of Blois, a little 
cavalcade, composed of three men and two pages, re-entered the city by 
the bridge, without producing any other effect upon the passengers of 
the quay beyond a first movement of the hand to the head, as a salute, 
and a second movement of the tongue to express, in the purest French 
then spoken in France: “There is MONSIEUR returning from hunting.” 
And that was all. 

Whilst, however, the horses were climbing the steep acclivity which 
leads from the river to the castle, several shopboys approached the 
last horse, from whose saddle-bow a number of birds were suspended by 
the beak. 

At seeing this, the inquisitive youths manifested with rustic freedom 
their contempt for such paltry sport, and, after a dissertation among 
themselves upon the disadvantages of hawking, they returned to their 
occupations. One only of the curious party, a stout, chubby, cheerful 
lad, having demanded how it was that Monsieur, who, from his great 
revenues, had it in his power to amuse himself so much better, could 
be satisfied with such mean diversions. 

“ Do you not know,” one of the standers-by replied, “that Monsieur’s 
principal amusement is to weary himself ?” 

The light-hearted boy shrugged his shoulders with a gesture which said 
as clear as day: “In that case I would rather be plain Jack than a prince.” 
And all resumed their labours. 

In the meanwhile, Monsieur continued his route with an air at once so 
melancholy and so majestic, that he certainly would have attracted the 
attention of spectators, if spectators there had been ; but the good citizens 
of Blois could not pardon Monsieur for having chosen their gay city for 
an abode in which to indulge melancholy at his ease, and as often as they 
caught a glimpse of the illustrious exzuyé, they stole away gaping, or drew 
back their heads into the interior of their dwellings, to escape the sopo- 
rific influence of that long pale face, of those watery eyes, and that languid 
address ; so that the worthy prince was almost certain to find the streets 
deSerted whenever he chanced to pass through them. 

ow, on the part of the citizens of Blois this was a culpable piece of 
disrespect, for Monsieur was, after the king—nay, even, perhaps, before 


I 


is THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


the king—the greatest noble of the kingdom. In fact, God, who had 
granted to Louis XIV., then reigning, the honour of being son of 
Louis XIII., had granted to Monsieur the honour’ of being son ot 
Henry IV. It was not then, or, at least, it ought not to have been, a, 
trifling source of pride for the city of Blois, that Gaston of Orleans had 
chosen it as his residence, and held his court in the ancient castle of 
its states. 

But it was the destiny of this great prince to excite the attention and 
admiration of the public in a very modified degree wherever he might be. 
Monsieur had fallen into this situation by habit. 

It was not, perhaps, this which gave him that air oflistlessness. Mon- 
sieur had been tolerably busy in the course of his life. A man cannot 
allow the heads of a dozen of his best friends to be cut off without feeling 
a little excitement : and as since the accession of Mazarin to power no- 
heads had been cut off, Monsieur’s occupation was gone, and his morale 
suffered from it. | 

The life of the poor prince was then very dull. After his little morning 
hawking-party on the banks of the Beuvion, or in the woods of Chiverny, 
Monsieur crossed the Loire, went to breakfast at Chambord, with or with- 
out an appetite, and the city of Blois heard no more of its sovereign lord 
and master till the next hawking-day. 

So much for the ennui extra muros,; of the ennui of the interior we will 
give the reader an idea if he will with us follow the cavalcade to the 
majestic porch of the castle of the states. 

Monsieur rode a little steady-paced horse, equipped with a large saddle 
of red Flemish velvet, with stirrups in the shape of buskins ; the horse was 
of a bay colour ; Monsieur’s pourpoint of crimson velvet corresponded with 
the cloak of the same shade and the horse’s equipment, and it was only by 
this red appearance of the whole that the prince could be known from his 
two companions, the one dressed in violet, the other in green. He on the left, 
in violet, was his equerry ; he on the right, in green, was the grand veneur. 

One of the pages carried two gerfalcons upon a perch, the othera 
hunting-horn, which he blew with a. careless note at twenty paces from 
the castle. Every one about this listless prince did what he had to do 
listlessly. 

At this signal, eight guards, who were lounging in the sun in the 
square court, ran to their halberts, and Monsieur made, his solemn entry 
into the castle. 

When he had disappeared under the shades of the porch, three or 
four idlers, who had followed the cavalcade to the castle, after pointing 
out the suspended birds to each other, dispersed with comments upon 
what they saw: and, when they were gone, the street, the place, and 
the court, all remained deserted alike. 

Monsieur dismounted without speaking a word, went straight to his 
apartments, where his valet changed his dress, and as Madame had not 
yet sent orders respecting breakfast, Monsieur stretched himself upon a 
chaise longue, and was soon as fast asleep as if it had been eleven o’clock 
at night. 

The eight guards, who concluded their service for the day was over, 
laid themselves down very comfortably in the stin upon some stone 
benches ; the grooms disappeared with their horses into the stables, and, 

‘with the exception of a few joyous birds, startling each other with th\ir 
sharp chirping in the tufts of gilliflowers, it might have been thought that 
the whole castle was as soundly asleep as Monsieur was. 


\ 


pk 


> 
1 


THE LETTER, “3 


All at once, in the midst of this deiicious silence, there resounded a 
clear ringing laugh, which caused several of the halberdiers in the enjoy- 
ment of their szes¢a to open at least one eye. 

This burst of laughter proceeded from a window of the castle, visited at 
this moment by the sun, which united it in one of those large angles which 
the profiles of the chimneys mark out upon the walls before mid-day. 

The little balcony of wrought iron which advanced in front of this 
window was furnished with a pot of red gilliflowers, another pot of prim- 
roses, and an early rose-tree, the foliage of which, beautifulky green, was 
variegated with numerous red specks announcing future roses. 

In the chamber lighted by this window was a square table, covered 
with an old large-flowered Haarlem tapestry : in the centre of this table 
was a long-necked stone bottle, in which were irises and lilies of the 
valley ; at each end of this table was a young girl. 

The position of these two young people was singular ; they might have 
been taken for two boarders escaped from a convent. One of them, with 
both elbows on the table, and a pen in her hand, was tracing characters 
upon a sheet of fine Dutch paper ; the other, kneeling upon a chair, which 
allowed her to advance her head and bust over the back of it to the middle 
of the table, was watching her companion as she wrote, or rather hesitated 
to write. 

Thence the thousand cries, the thousand railleries, the thousand laughs, 
one of which, more brilliant than the rest, had startled the birds of the 
ravenelles, and disturbed the slumbers of Monsieur’s guards. 

We are taking portraits now; we shall be allowed, therefore, we hope, 
to sketch the two last of this chapter. 

The one who was leaning in the chair—that is to say, the joyous, the 
laughing one—was a beautiful girl of from eighteen to twenty, with brown 
complexion and brown hair, splendid, from eyes which sparkled beneath 
strongly marked brows, and particularly from her teeth, which seemed to 
shine like pearls between her red coral lips. Her every movement seemed 
the result of a springing mine ; she did not live—she bounded. 

The other, she who was writing, looked at her turbulent companion with 
an eye as limpid, as pure, and as blue as the heaven of that day. Her hair, 
of a shaded fairness, arranged with exquisite taste, fell in silky curls over 
her lovely mantling cheeks ; she passed across the paper a delicate hand, 
whose thinness announced her extreme youth. At each burst of laughter 
that proceeded from her friend, she raised, as if annoyed, her white 
shoulders in a’poetical and mild manner, but they were wanting in that rich 
fulness of mould which was likewise to be wished in her arms and hands. 

““Montalais ! Montalais !” said she at length, in a voice soft and 
caressing as a melody, “you laugh too loud—you laugh like aman! You 
will not only draw the attention of messieurs the guards, but you will not 
hear Madame’s bell when Madame rings.” 

This admonition neither made the young girl called Montalais cease to 
laugh nor gesticulate. She only replied: “ Louise, you do not speak as 
you think, my dear; you know that messieurs the guards, as you call 
them, have only just commenced their sleep, and that a cannon would not 
waken them; you know that Madame’s bell can be heard at the bridge of 
Blois, and that consequently I shall hear it when my services are required 
by Madame. What annoys you, my child, is that I laugh while you, 
are writing ; and what you are afraid of is that Madame de Saint-Remy, 
your mother, should come up here, as she does sometimes when we laugh 
tgo loud; that she should surprise us, and that she should see that enor- 

i—2 


4 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


mous sheet of paper upon which, in a quarter of an hour, you have only 
traced the words Wonsteur Raoul. Now, you are right, my dear Louise, 
because after these words, ‘ Monsieur Raoul,’ others may be put so signi- 
ficant and so incendiary as to cause Madame de Saint- -Remy to burst “out 
into fire and flames! /Zezz / is not that true now ?—say.” 

And Montalais redoubled her laughter and noisy provocations. 

The fair girl at length became quite angry ; she tore the sheet of paper 
on which, in fact, the words “ Monsieur Raoul” wer written in good 
characters ; and, crushing the paper in her trembling hands, she threw it 
out of the window. 

“There! there!” said Mademoiselle de Montalais ; “ there is our little 
lamb, our gentle dove angry! Don’t be afraid, Louise—Madame de 
Saint- Remy will not come ; and if she should, you know I have a quick 
ear. Besides, what can be more permissible than to write to an old friend 
of twelve years’ standing, particularly when the letter begias with the 
words, ‘ Monsieur Raoul ?” 

“It is all very well—I will not write to him at all,” said the young girl. 

“Ah, ah! in good sooth, Montalais is properly punished,” cried the jeering 
brunette, still laughing. c Come, come! let us try another sheet of paper, 
and finish our despatch off hand. Good! there is the bell ringing now. 
By my faith, so much the worse ! Madame must wait, or else do without 
her first maid of honour this morning.” 

A bell, in fact, did ring ; it announced that Madame had finished her 
toilette, ‘and waited for Monsieur to give her his land, and conduct her 
from the sa/oxz to the refectory. 

This formality being accomplished with great ceremony, the husband 
and wife breakfasted, and then separated till the hour of dinner, invariably 
fixed at two o’clock. 

The sound of this bell caused a door to be opened in the offices on the 
left hand of the court, from which filed two maitres a’hotel, followed by 
eight scullions bearing a kind of hand-barrow loaded with dishes under 
silver covers. 

One of the maitres d’hdvel, the first in rank, touched one of the guards, 
who was snoring on his bench, slightly with his wand ; he even carried 
his kindness so far as to place the halbert which stood against the wall in 
the hands of the man, stupid with sleep, after which the soldier, without 
explanation, escorted the vzamde of Monsieur to the refectory, preceded by 
a page and the two maitres @hétel. 

Wherever the vwzande passed, the soldiers ported arms. 

Mademoiselle de Montalais and her companion had watched from their 
window the details of this ceremony, to which, by the bye, they must have 
been pretty well accustomed. But they did not look so much from curio- 
sity as to be assured they should not be disturbed. So guards, scullions, 
maitres @hotel, and pages having passed, they resumed their places at the 
table ; and the sun, which, through the window-frame, had for an instant 
fallen. upon those ‘two charming countenances, now only shed its light 
upon the gilliflowers, primroses, ‘and rose-tree. 

“Bah !” said Mademoiselle de Montalais, taking her place again ; 
“Madame will breakfast very well without me !” 

“Oh! Montalais, you will be punished !” replied the other girl, sitting 
down quietly in hers. : 

“Punished, indeed !—that is to say, deprived of a ride! That is jubt 
the way in which I wish to be punished. To go out in the grand coach, 
perched upon a doorstep ; to turn to the left, twist round to the right, over 


Pisin! 2 Lois 5 


roads full of ruts, where we cannot exceed a league in two hours; and 
then to come back straight towards the wing of the castle in which is the 
window of Mary de Medici, so that Madame never fails to say: “Could 
one believe it possible that Mary de Medici should have escaped from 
that window—torty-seven feet high? The mother of two princes and 
three princesses’ If you call that relaxation, Louise, all I ask is to be 
punished every day ; particularly when my punishment is to remain with 
you and write such interesting letters as we write !” 

“*Montalais ! Montalais ! there are duties to be performed.” 

“You talk of them very much at your ease, my little heart !—you, who 
are left quite free amidst this tedious court. You are the only person that 
reaps the advantages of them without incurring the trouble,—you, who are 
really more one of Madame’s maids of honour than I am, because Madame 
makes her affection for your father-in-law glance off upon you ; so that 
you enter this dull house as the birds fly into yonder court, inhaling the 
air, pecking the flowers, picking up the grain, without having the least 
service to perform, or the least annoyance to undergo. And you talk to 
me of duties to be performed! In sooth, my pretty idler, what are your 
own proper duties, unless to write to the handsome Raoul? And even 
that you don’t do; so that it looks to me as if you likewise were rather 
negligent of your duties !” 

Louise assumed a serious air, leant her chin upon her hand, and, in a 
tone full of candid remonstrance, “‘And do you reproach me with my 
good fortune?” said she. “Can you have the heart to do it? You havea 
future ; you belong to the court ; the king, if he should marry, will require 
Monsieur to be near his person ; you will see splendid /é/es ; you will see 
the king, who they say is so handsome, so agreeable !” 

“ Ay, and still more, I shall see Raoul, who attends upon M. le Prince,” 
added Montalais, maliciously. 

“ Poor Raoul !” sighed Louise. 

“Now is the time to write to him, my pretty dear! Come, begin again, 
with that famous ‘ Monsieur Raoul’ which figures at the top of the poor 
torn sheet.” 

She then held the pen towards her, and with a charming smile encour- 
aged her hand, which quickly traced the words she named. 

“What next ?” asked the younger of the two girls. 

“Why, now write what you think, Louise,” replied Montalais. 

“ Are you quite sure I think of anything ?” 

“You think of somebody, and that amounts to the same thing, or rather 
even worse.” 

“Do you think so, Montalais ?” 

“\Louise, Louise, your blue eyes are as deep as the sea I saw at Bou- 
logne last year! No, no, I mistake—the:sea Is perfidious : your eyes are 
ATyeeP as the azure yonder—look !—over our heads !” 
© sry Vell, since you can read so well in my eyes, tell me what I am think- 

est out, Montalais.” 
‘ - ‘e-n the first place, you don’t think, Aomsteur Raoul, you think Ay 
dea, {Raoul.” 

T3 h | 

“(Never blush for such a trifle as that! ‘My dear Raoul,’ we will 
say,—‘ You implore me to write to you at Paris, where you are detained 

by your attendance on M. le Prince. As you must be very dull there, te 
seek for amusement in the remembrance of a pfrovinctale——’” 
ouise rose up suddenly. “No, Montalais,” said she, with a smile ; “I 


¥ 


& THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


don’t think a word of that. Look, this is what I think ;’ and she seized 
the pen boldly, and traced, with a firm hand, the following words : 

“Tl should have been very unhappy if your entreaties to obtain a remem- 
brance of me had been less warm. Everything here reminds me of our 
early days, which so quickly passed away, which so delightfully flew by, 
that no others will ever replace the charm of them in my heart.” 

Montalais, who watched the flying pen, and read, the wrong way up- 
wards, as fast as her friend wrote, here interrupted by clapping her hands. 
“Capital !” cried she ; “there is frankness—there is heart—there is style ! 
Show these Parisians, my dear, that Blois is the city for fine language !” 

“He knows very well that Blois was a Paradise to me,” replied the girl. 

“That is exactly what you mean to say; and you speak like an angel.” 

“Twill finish, Montalais,” and she continued as follows: “ You often 
think of me, you say, Monsieur Raoul: I thank you; but that does not 
surprise me, when I recollect how often our hearts have beaten close to 
each other.” 

“Oh! oh!” said Montalais. “Beware, my lamb! You are scattering 
your wool, and there are wolves about.” 

Louise was about to reply when the gallop of a horse resounded under 
the porch of the castle. 

“What is that ?’ said Montalais, approaching the window. “A hand- 
some cavalier, by my faith !” 

“Oh !—Raoul !” exclaimed Louise, who had made the same movement 
e her friend, and, becoming pale as death, sunk back beside her unfinished 
etter. 

“Now, he is a clever lover, upon my word!” cried Montalais ; “he 
arrives just at the proper moment.” 

“Come in, come in, I implore you !” murmured Louise. 

“Bah! he does not know me. Let me see what he has come here for.” 


CHAPTER 11. 
THE MESSENGER. 


MADEMOISELLE DE MONTALAIS was right: the young cavalier was 
goodly to look upon. 

_ He was a young man of from twenty-four to twenty-five years of age, 
tall and slender, wearing gracefully the picturesque military costume of 
the period. His large boots contained a foot which Mademoiselle de 
Montalais might not have disowned if she had been transformed into a 
man. With one of his delicate but nervous hands he checked his horse 
in the middle of the court, and with the other raised his hat, whose long 
plumes shaded his at once serious and ingenuous countenance. . 

The guards, roused by the steps of the horse, awoke, and were o 
in a minute. The young man waited till one of them was close 
saddle-bow : then, stooping towards him, in a clear, distinct voice, 
was perfectly audible at the window where the two girls were con 
“A message for his royal highness,” he said. 

“Ah, ah !” cried the soldier. “ Officer, a messenger !” 

But this brave guard knew very well that no officer would appear, seeing 
that the only one who could have appeared dwelt at the other side of\the 
castle, in an apartment looking into the gardens. So he hastened to add : 
“The officer, monsieur, is on his rounds ; but, in his absence, M, 
Saint-Remy, the maitre @hédzel, shall be informed,” 


THE MESSENGER. ” 


“'M. de Saint-Remy ?” repeated the cavalier, slightly blushing. 

“Do you know him ?” 

“Why, yes; but request him, if you please, that my visit be announced 
to his royal highness as soon as possible.” 

“It appears to be pressing,” said the guard, as if speaking to himself, but 
really in the hope of obtaining an answer. 

The messenger made an affirmative sign with his head. 

“In that case,” said the guard, “I will go and seek the maitre @hétel 
myself.” 

The young man, in the meantime, dismounted ; and whilst the others 
were making their remarks upon the fine horse the cavalier rode, the 
soldier returned. 

“Your pardon, young gentleman ; but your name, if you please ?” 

“The Vicomte de Bragelonne, on the part of his highness M. le Prince 
de Condé.” 

The soldier made a profound bow, and, as if the name of the conqueror 
of Rocroy and Sens had given him wings, he stepped lightly up the steps 
leading to the ante-chamber. 

M. de Bragelonne had not had time to fasten his horse to the iron bars 
of the Zerron, when M. de Saint-Remy came running, out of breath, sup- 
porting his capacious stomach with one hand, whilst with the other he cut 
the air as a fisherman cleaves the waves with his oar. 

* Ah, Monsieur le Vicomte! You at Blois !” cried he. “ Well, that isa 
wonder! Good day to you—good day, Monsieur Raoul.” 

“I offer you a thousand respects, M. de Saint-Remy.” 

“ How Madame de la Vall—I mean, how delighted Madame de Saint- 
Remy will be to see you! But come in. His royal highness is at break- 
fast—must he be interrupted? Is the matter serious ?” 

“Yes, and no, Monsieur de Saint-Remy. A moment’s delay, however, 
would be disagreeable to his royal highness.” 

“If that is the case, we will force the comszgne, Monsieur le Vicomte. 
Come in. Besides, Monsieur is in an excellent humour to-day. And 
then, you bring news, do you not?” 

“Great news, Monsieur de Saint-Remy.” 

“And good, I presume ?” 

“ Excellent.” 

“Come quickly, come quickly, then !” cried the worthy man, putting his 
dress to rights as he went along. 

Raoul followed him, hat in hand, and a little disconcerted at the noise 
made by his spurs in these immense sa/oms. 

As soon as he had disappeared in the interior of the palace, the window 
of the court was repeopled, and an animated whispering betrayed the 
emotion of the two girls. ‘They soon appeared to have formed a resolu- 
tion, for one of the two faces disappeared from the window. This was the 
brunette ; the other remained behind the balcony, concealed by the flowers, 
watching attentively through the branches the Zerron by which M. de 
Bragelonne had entered the castle. 

In the mean time the object of so much laudable curiosity continued 
his route, following the steps of the maitre d’hétel. The noise of quick 

steps, an odour of wine and viands, a clinking of crystals and plates, 
arned them that they were coming to the end of their course. 

The pages, valets, and officers, assembled in the offices which preceded 

e refectory, welcomed the new-comer with the proverbial politeness of 

he country ; some of them were acquainted with Raoul, and all knew that 


8 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


he came from Paris. It might be said that his arrival for a moment sus- 
pended the service. In fact, a page who was pouring out wine for his royal 
highness, on hearing the jingling of spurs in the next chamber, turned 
round like a child, without perceiving that he was continuing to pour out, 
not into the glass, but upon the table-cloth. 

Madame, who was not so preoccupied as her glorious spouse was, re- 
marked this distraction of the page. ‘‘ Well !” exclaimed she. 

“Well !” repeated Monsieur ; “ what is going on then ?” 

M. de Saint-Remy, who had just introduced his head through the door- 
way, took advantage of the moment. 

“Why am I to be disturbed ?” said Gaston, helping himself to a thick 
slice of one of the largest salmon that had ever ascended the Loire to be 
captured between Painbceuf and Saint- Nazaire. 

“There is a messenger from Paris. Oh! but after monseigneur has 
breakfasted will do ; there is plenty of time.” 

“From Paris!” cried the prince, letting his fork fall. “A messenger 
from Paris, do you say? And on whose part does this messenger 
come ?” 

“On the part of M. le Prince,” said the maitre a’hétel promptly. 

Every one knows that the Prince de Condé was so called. 

“A messenger from M.le Prince !” said Gaston, with an inquietude that 
escaped none of the assistants, and consequently redoubled the general 
curiosity. 

Monsieur, perhaps, fancied himself brought back again to the happy times 
when the opening of a door gave him an emotion, in which every letter 
might contain a state secret,—in which every message was connected with 
a dark and complicated intrigue. Perhaps, likewise, that great name of 
M. le Prince expanded itself, beneath the roofs of Blois, into the propor- 
tions of a phantom. 

Monsieur pushed away his plate. 

“Shall I tell the envoy to wait ?” asked M. de Saint-Remy. 


A glance from Madame emboldened Gaston, who replied: “ No, no; let 


h’m come in at once, on the contrary. Apropos, who is he?” 

“A gentleman of this country, M. le Vicomte de Bragelonne.” 

“Ah, very well! Introduce him, Saint-Remy—introduce him.” 

Ai:d when he had let fall these words, with his accustomed gravity, 
. Monsieur turned his eyes, ina certain manner, upon the people of his suite, 
so that all, pages, officers, and equerries, quitted the service, knives, and 
goblets, and made towards the second chamber a retreat as rapid as it was 
disorderly. 

This little army had dispersed in two files when Raoul de Bragelonne, 
preceded by M. de Saint-Remy, entered the refectory. 

The short moment of solitude in which this retreat had left him, per- 
mitted Monsieur the time to assume a diplomatic countenance. He did 
not turn round, but waited till the #zaitre a’hdtel should bring the messenger 
face to face with him. 

Raoul stopped even with the lower end of the table, soas to be exactly 
between Monsieur and Madame. From this place he made a profound 
bow to Monsieur, and a very humble one to Madame ; then, drawing him- 
self up into military Jose, he waited for Monsieur to address him. 

On his part the prince waited till the doors were hermetically closed, he 
would not turn round to ascertain the fact, as that would have been de- 
rogatory to his dignity, but he listened with all his ears for the noise of the 
lock, which would promise him at least an appearance of secrecy. 


i 


a4 


THE MESSENGER. y 


The doors being closed, Monsieur raised his eyes towards the vicomte, 
and said, “It appears that you come from Paris, monsieur r’ 

“This minute, monseigneur.” 

“ How is the king ?” 

“His majesty is in perfect health, monseigneur.” 

“ And my sister-in-law ?” 

“ Her majesty the queen-mother still suffers from the complaint in her 
lungs, but for the last month she has been rather better.” 

‘“‘ Somebody told me you came on the part of M. le Prince. They must 
have been mistaken, surely ?” 

“No, monseigneur ; M. le Prince has charged me io convey this letter 
to your royal highness, and I am to wait for an answer to it.” 

Raoul had been a little annoyed by this cold and cautious reception, and 
his voice insensibly sank to a low key. 

The prince forgot that he was the cause of this apparent mystery, and 
his fears returned. 

He received the letter from the Prince de Condé with a haggard look, 
unsealed it as he would have unsealed a suspicious packet, and, in order 
to read it so that no one should remark the effects of it upon his counten- 
ance, he turned round. 

Madame followed, with an anxiety almost equal to that of the prince, 
every manceuvre of her august husband. 

Raoul, impassible, and a little disengaged by the attention of his hosts, 
jooked. from his place through the open window at the gardens and the 
statues which peopled them. 

“Well !” cried Monsieur, all at once, with a cheerful smile ; “here is 
an agreeable surprise, and a charming letter from M. le Prince. Look, 
Madame !” 

The table was too large to allow the arm of the prince to reach the hand 
of Madame ; Raoul sprang forward to be their intermediary, and did it 
with so good a grace as to: procure a flattering acknowledgment from the 
princess. 

“You know the contents of this letter, no doubt ?” said Gaston to Raoul. 

“Yes, monseigneur ; M. le Prince at first gave me the message verbally, 
but upon reflection his highness took up his pen.” 

“It is beautiful writing,” said Madame, “ but I cannot read it.” 

“Will you read it to Madame, M. de Bragelonne ?” said the duke. 

“Yes ; read it, if you please, monsieur.” 

Raoul began to read, Monsieur giving again all his attention. The 
letter was conceived in these terms : 

“ MONSEIGNEUR,—The king is abdut to set out for the frontiers. You 
are aware that the marriage of his majesty is concluded upon. The king 
has done me the honour to appoint me his smaréchal-des-logis for this 
journey, and as I knew with what joy his majesty would pass a day at 
Blois, I venture to ask your royal highness’s permission to mark the house 
you inhabit as our quarters. If, however, the suddenness of this request 
sheuld create to your royal highness any embarrassment, I entreac you to 
» say so by the messenger I send, a gentleman of my su'te, M. le Vicomte 
de Bragelonne. My itinerary wil] depend upon your royal highness’s de- 
ternination, and, instead of passing through Blois, we shall come through 
_ Venilome and Romorantin. I ventvirs to hope that your royal highness 
will/be pleased with my arrangement, it being the expression of my bound- 
less} desire to make myself agreeable to you.” 

““Nothing can be more gracious towards us,” said Madame, who had 


19 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


more than once consulted the looks of her husband during the reading of 
the letter. “The king here !” exclaimed she, in a rather louder tone than 
would have been necessary to preserve secrecy. 

“ Monsieur,” said his royal highness in his turn, “you will offer my 
thanks to M. le Prince de Condé, and express to him my gratitude for the 
pleasure he has done me.” Raoul bowed. 

“ On what day will his majesty arrive?” continued the prince. 

“ The king, monseigneur, will, in all probability, arrive this evening.” 

“ But how, then, could he have known my reply if it had been in the 
negative ?” 

“‘T was desired, monseigneur, to return in all haste to Beaugency, to give 
counter-orders to the courier, who was himself to go back immediately with 
counter-orders to M. le Prince.” 

“His majesty is at Orleans, then ?” 

“ Much nearer, monseigneur; his majesty must by this time have 
arrived at Meung.” 

“ Does the court accompany him ?” 

“Yes, monseigneur.” 

“ Apropos, 1 forgot to ask you after M. le Cardinal.” 

“His eminence appears to enjoy good health, monseigneur.” 

“ His nieces accompany him, no doubt?” 

“ No, monseigneur ; his eminence has ordered the Mesdemoiselles de 
Mancini to set out for Brouage. They will follow the left bank of the 
Loire, while the court will come by the right.” 

“What! Mademoiselle Mary de Mancini quit the court in that 
manner >” asked Monsieur, his reserve beginning to diminish. 

“ Mademoiselle Mary de Mancini in particular,” replied Raoul discreetly. 

A fugitive smile, an imperceptible vestige of his ancient spirit of intrigue, 
shot across the pale face of the prince. 

“Thanks, M. de Bragelonne,” then said Monsieur. ‘“ You would, per- 
haps, not be willing to render M. le Prince the commission with which I 
would charge you, and that is, that his messenger has been very agreeable 
tome: but I will tell him so myself.” 

Raoul bowed his thanks to Monsieur for the honour he had done him. 

Monsieur made a sign to Madame, who struck a bell which was placed 
at her right hand; M. de Saint-Remy entered, and the room was soon 
filled with people. 

“ Messieurs,” said the prince, “his majesty is about to pay me the 
honour of passing a day at Blois ; I depend upon the king, my nephew, 
not having to repent of the favour he does my house.” 

“ Vive le Roi!” cried all the officers of the household with frantic en- 
thusiasm, and M. de Saint-Remy louder than the rest. 

Gaston hung down his head with evident chagrin. He had all his life 
been obliged to hear, or rather to undergo, this cry of “ Vive le Roi!” 
which passed over him. Fora long time, being unaccustomed to hear it, 
his ear had had rest, and now a younger, more vivacious, and more bril- 
liant royalty rose up before him, like anew and a more painful provocation. 

Madame perfectly understood the sufferings of that timid, gloomy heart; 
she rose from the table, Monsieur imitated her mechanically, and all the 
domestics, with a buzzing like that of several bee-hives, surrounded Raoul 
for the purpose of questioning him. 

Madame saw this movement, and called M. de Saint-Remy. “ this is 
net the time for gossiping, but working,” said she, with the tone af an 
angry housekeeper. 4 


V/ 


f 


THE MESSENGER. it 


M. de Saint-Remy hastened to break the circle formed by the officers 
round Raoul, so that the latter was able to gain the antechamber. 

“Care will be taken of that gentleman, I hope,” added Madame, address- 
ing M. de Saint-Remy. 

The worthy man immediately hastened after Raoul. ‘Madame desires 
refreshment to be offered to you,” said he; “and there is, besides, a 
lodging for you in the castle.” 

“Thanks, M. de Saint-Remy,” replied Raoul; but you know how anxious 
I must be to pay my duty to M. le Comte, my father.” 

“That is true, that is true, Monsieur Raoul; present him, at the same 
time, my humble respects, if you please.” 

Raoul thus once more got rid of the old gentleman, and pursued his 
way. As he was passing under the porch, leading his horse by the bridle, 
a soft voice called him from the depths of an obscure path. 

“ Monsieur Raoul !” said the voice. 

The young man turned round surprised, and saw a dark-complexioned 
girl, who, with a finger on her lip, held out her other hand to him. This 
girl was perfectly unknown to him. 


—~— ee 


CHAPTER III. 
THE INTERVIEW. 


RAOUL made one step towards the girl who thus called him. 
“But my horse, Madame ?” said he. 
“Oli! you are terribly embarrassed ! 

in the outer court ; fasten your horse, and return quickly.” 

“T obey, madame.” 

Raoul was not four minutes in performing what he had been directed to 
do ; he returned to the little door, where, in darkness, he found his myste- 
rious conductress waiting for him, on the first steps of a winding staircase. 

“Are you brave enough to follow me, monsieur knight-errant ?” asked 
the girl, laughing at the momentary hesitation Raoul had manifested. 

The latter replied by springing up the dark staircase after her. They 
thus climbed up three stories, he behind her, touching with his hands, 
when he felt for the banister, a silk dress w hich rubbed against each side 
of the staircase. At every false step made by Raoul, his conductress cried, 
‘“* Hush !” and held out to him a soft and perfumed hand. 

“One would mount thus to the donjon of the castle without being con- 
scious of fatigue,” said Raoul. 

‘All which means, monsieur, that you are very much perplexed, very tired, 
and very uneasy. But be of good cheer, monsieur ; here we are, arrived. ” 

The girl threw open a door, which immediately, withcut any transition, 
filled with a flood of light the landing of the staircase, at the top of which 
Raoul appeared, holding fast by the balustrade. 

The girl continued to walk on—he followed her ; she entered a chamber 
—he did the same. 

As soon as he was fairly in the net, he heard a loud cry, and, turning 
round, saw at two paces from him, with her hands clasped and her eyes 
closed, that beautiful fair girl with blue eyes and white shoulders, who, 
re¢ognising him, had called him Raoul. 

He saw her, and divined at once so much love and so much j joy in the 


_ expression of her countenance, that he sank on his knees in the middle of 


the chamber, murmuring, on his part, the name of Louise, 


12 THE VICOUTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“Ah! Montalais!— Montalais !” sighed she, “it is very wicked to 
deceive one so.” 

“Who, I? I have deceived you?” 

“Ves; you told me you would gc down to inquire the news, and you 
have brought up monsieur !” : 

“Well, I was obliged to do so—how else could he have received the 
letter you wrote him ?” 

And she pointed with her finger to the letter which was still upon the 


table. Raoul made a step to take it ; Louise, more rapid, although she had 


sprung forward with a sufficiently remarkable physical hesitation, reached 
out her hand to stop him. Raoul came in contact with that trembling 
hand, took it within his own, and carried it so respectfully to his lips, that 
he might be said to have deposited a sigh upon it rather than a kiss. —_- 

In the meantime, Mademoiselle de Montalais had taken the letter, folded 
it carefully, as women do, in three folds, and slipped it inte her bosom. 

“Don’t be afraid, Louise,” said she ; ““monsieur will no more venture to 
take it hence than the defunct king Louis XIII. ventured to take billets 
from the corsage of Mademoiselle de Hautefort.” 

Raoul blushed at seeing the smile of the two girls: and he did not 
remark that the hand of Louise remained in his. 

“There !” said Montalais, “you have pardoned me, Louise, for having 
brought monsieur to you; and you, monsieur, bear me no malice for 
having followed me to see mademoiselle. Now, then, peace being made, 
let us chat like old friends. Present me, Louise, to M. de Bragelonne.” 

“Monsieur le Viscomte,” said Louise, with her quiet grace and ingenu- 
ous smile, “I have the honour to present to you Mademoiselle Aure de 
Montalais, maid of honour to her royal highness Madame, and moreover 
my friend—my excellent friend.” 

Raoul bowed ceremoniously. 

““And me, Louise,” said he—“ will you not present me also to mademoi- 
selle ?” 

“Oh, she knows you—she knows all !” 

This unguarded expression made Montalais Iaugh and Raoul sigh with 
happiness, for he interpreted it thus : “She knows all our love.” 

““The ceremonies being over, Monsieur le Vicomte,” said Montalais, 
“take a chair, and tell us quickly the news you bring flying thus.” 

“Mademoiselle, it is no longer a secret ; the king, on his way to 
Poitiers, will stop at Blois, to visit his royal highness.” 

“The king here !” exclaimed Montalais, clapping her hands. “ What ! 
are we going to see the court? Only think, Louise—the real court from 
Paris! Oh, good heavens! But when will this happen, monsieur ?” 

“Perhaps this evening, mademoiselle ; at latest, to-morrow.” 

Montalais lifted her shoulders in sign of vexation. 

“No time to get ready! No time to prepare a single dress! We are 
as far behind the fashions as the Poles. We shall look like portraits of 
the times of Henry IV. Ah, monsieur ! this is sad news you bring us !” | 

“But, mesdemoiselles, you will be still beautiful.” 

“That’s stale! Yes, we shall be always beautiful, because nature has. 
made us passable; but we shall be ridiculous, because the fashion will have 
forgotten us. Alas! ridiculous! I shall be thought ridiculous—I !” 

“And by whom ?” said Louise, innocently. \ 

“By whom? You are a strange girl, my dear. Is that a question to 
put to me? I mean everybody ; I mean the courtiers, the nobles ; J 
mean the king.” : : 


i\y 


} 


THE INTERVIEW. 13 


‘Pardon me, my good friend ; but as here every one is accustomed to 
see us as we are Xe 

“ Granted ; but that is about to change, and we shall be ridiculous, even for 
Blois ; for close to us will be seen the fashions from Paris, and they will per- 
ceive that we are in the fashion of Blois! It is enough to make one wild!” 

“ Console yourself, mademoiselle.” 

“Well, so let it be! After all, so much the worse for those who do not 
find me to their taste !” said Montalais, philosophically. 

“They would be very difficult to please,” replied Raoul, faithful to his 
regular system of gallantry. 

“Thank you, Monsieur le Vicomte. We were saying, then, that the 
king is coming to Blois ?” 

“ With all the court.” 

“ Mesdemoiselles de Mancini, will they be with them ?” 

“ No, certainly not.” 

“ But asthe King, it is said, cannot do without Mademoiselle Mary ?” 

“ Mademoiselle, the king must do without her. M. le Cardinal will 
have it so. He has exiled his nieces to Brouage.” 

“He !-the hypocrite !” 

“Hush !” said Louise, pressing a finger on her friend’s rosy lips. 

“Bah! nobody can hear me. I say that old Mazarino Mazarini is a 
hypocrite, who burns impatiently to make his niece queen of France.” 

“That cannot be, mademoiselle, since M. le Cardinal, on the contrary, 
has brought about the marriage of his majesty with the Infanta Maria 
Theresa. ’ 

Montalais looked Racul full in the face, and said, “And do you 
Parisians believe in these tales? Well! we are a little more cunning 
than you at Blois.” 

“ Mademoiselle, if the king goes beyond Poitiers and sets out for Spain ; 
if the articles of the marriage contract are agreed upon by Don Luis de 
Haro and his eminence, you must plainly perceive that it is not child’s play.” 

“ All very fine! but the king is king, 1 suppose ?” 

“No doubt, mademoiselle ; but the cardinal is the cardinal.” 

“The king is not a man, then! And he does not love Mary Mancini ?” 

“ He adores her.” 

“Well, he will marry her then. We shall have war with Spain. M. 
Mazarin will spend a few of the millions he has put away ; our gentlemen 
will perform prodigies of valour in their encounters with the proud Casti- 
lians, and many of them will return crowned with laurels, to be recrowned 
by us with myrtles. Now, that is my view of politics.” 

“Montalais you are wild!” said Louise, “and every exaggeration 
attracts you as light does a moth.” 

“Louise, you are so extremely reasonable, that you will never know how 
to love.” 

“Oh !” said Louise, in a tone of tender reproach, “don’t you see, Mon- 
talais ? —The queen-mother desires to marry her son to the infanta ; would 
you wish him to disobey his mother? Is it fora royal heart like his to set 
such a bad example? When parents forbid love, love must be banished.” 

And Louise sighed: Raoul cast down his eyes, with an expression of 
constraint. Montalais, on her part, laughed aloud. 

“Well, I have no parents !” said she. 

“You are acquainted, without doubt, with the state of health of M. le 
Comte de la Fére?” said Louise, after breathing that sigh which had 


revealed so many griefs in its eloquent utterance. 


; 


i4 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. . 


“No, mademoiselle,” replied Raoul, “I have not yet paid my respects 
to my father ; I was going to his house when Mademoiselle de Montalais 
so kindly stopped me. I hope the comte is well. You have heard nothing 
to the contrary, have you?” 

“No, M. Raoul—nothing, thank God !” j 

Here, for several instants, ensued a silence, during which two spirits, 
which followed. the same idea, communicated perfectly, without even the 
assistance of a single glance. 

“Oh, heavens !” exclaimed Montalais in a fright ; ‘ there is somebody 
coming up.” 

“ Who can it be?” said Louise, rising in great agitation. 

“ Mesdemoiselles, I inconvenience you very much. I have, without 
doubt, been very indiscreet,” stammered Raoul, very ill at ease. 

“It is a heavy step,” said Louise. _ 

“Ah! if it is only M. Malicorne,” added Montalais, “do not disturb 
yourselves.” 

Louise and Raoul looked at each other to inquire who M. Malicorne 
could be. 

“There is no occasion to mind him,” continued Montalais ; “he is not 
jealous.” 

“But, mademoiselle——’ said Raoul. 

“Yes, I understand. Well, he is as discreet as I am.” 

“Good heavens!” cried Louise, who had applied her ear to the door, 
which had been left ajar ; ‘Sit is my mother’s step !” 

““Madame de Saint-Remy! Where shall I hide myself?” exclaimed 
Raoul, catching at the dress of Montalais, who looked quite bewildered. 

“Yes,” said she; “yes, I know the clicking of those pattens! It is 
our excellent mother. M. le Vicomte, what a pity it is the window looks» 
upon a stone pavement, and that fifty paces below it !” 3 

Raoul glanced at the balcony in despair. Louise seized his arm, and 
held it tight. 

“Oh, how silly I am!” said Montalais; “have I not the robe-of- 
ceremony closet? It looks as if it were made on purpose.” 

It was quite time to act; Madame de Saint-Remy was coming up at 
a quicker pace than usual. She gained the landing at the moment when 
Montalais, as in all scenes of surprises, shut the closet by leaning with her 
back against the door. 

“Ah!” cried Madame de Saint-Remy, “you are here, are you, Louise ?” 

“Yes, madame,” replied she, more pale than if she had committed a 
great crime. 

“Well, well !” 

“Pray be seated, madame,” said Montalais, offering her a chair, which 
she placed so that the back was towards the closet. 

i agi you, Mademoiselle Aure—thank you. Come, my child, be 
quick. 

‘Where do you wish me to go, madame ?” 

‘Why, home, to be sure ; have you not to prepare your toilette >” 

“What did you say ?” cried Montalais, hastening to affect surprise, so 
fearful was she that Louise would in some way commit herself. 

‘You don’t know the news, then ?” said Madame de Saint-Remy. © 

‘What news, madame, is it possible for two girls to learn up in‘this 
dovecot ?” ( 

“What! have you seen nobody ?” | 

“Madame, you talk in enigmss, 2nd you torment us at a slow file !? 


THE INTERVIEW. iy 


cried Montalais, who, terrified at seeing Louise become paler and paler, 
did not know to what saint to put up her vows. 

At length she caught an eloquent look of her companion’s, one of those 
looks which would convey intelligence to a brick wall. Louise directed 
her attention to a hat—Raoul’s unlucky hat, which was set out in all its 
feathery splendour upon the table. 

Montalais sprang towards it, and, seizing it with her left hand, passed 
it behind her into the right, concealing it as she was speaking. 

“Well,” said Madame de Saint-Remy, “a courier has arrived announcing 
the approach of the king. There, mesdemoiselles ; there is something to 
make you put on your best looks.” 

“Quick, quick!” cried Montalais. ‘Follow Madame your mother, 
Louise ; and leave me to get ready my dress of ceremony.” 

Louise arose ; her mother took her by the hand, and led her out on to 
the landing. : 

“¢ Come along,” said she ; then adding in a lower voice, “ When I for- 
bid you to come to the apartment of Montalais, why do you do so ?” 

“Madame, she is my friend. Besides, I was but just come.” 

* Did you see nobody concealed while you were there ?” 

“ Madame !” 

“‘T saw a man’s hat, I tell you—the hat of that fellow, that good-for- 
nothing !” 

“ Madame !” repeated Louise. 

“ Of that de-nothing De Malicorne! A maid of honour to have such 
company—fie ! fie!” And their voices were lost in the depths of the 
narrow staircase. 

Montalais had not missed a word of this conversation, which echo con- 
veyed to her as if through a tunnel. She shrugged her shoulders on seeing 
Raoul, who had listened likewise, issue from the closet. 

“ Poor Montalais !” said she, “ the victim of friendship !_ Poor Malicorne, 
the victim of love !” 

She stopped on viewing the tragi-comic face of Raoul, who was vexed 
at having, in one day, surprised so many secrets. 

“ Oh, mademoiselle !” said he ; “how can we repay your kindnesses ?” 

“Oh, we will balance accounts some day,” said she. ‘“ For the present, 
begone, M. de Bragelonne, for Madame de Saint-Remy is not over indul- 
gent ; and any indiscretion on her part might bring hither a domiciliary 
visit, which would be disagreeable to all parties.” 

* But Louise—how shall I know M 

“Begone! begone! King Louis XI. knew very well what he was about 
when he invented the post.” 

“ Alas !” sighed Raoul. 

“And am I not here—I, who am worth all the posts in the kingdom ? 
Quick, I say, to horse! so that if Madame de Saint-Remy should return 
for the purpose of preaching me a lesson on morality, she may not find 
you here.” 

“She would tell my father, would she not ?? murmured Raoul. 

_“ And you would be scolded. Ah, vicomte, it is very plain you come 
from court ; you are as timid as the king. /es¢e/ at Blois we contrive 
better than that, to do without papa’s consent. Ask Malicorne else !” 

Anji at these words the girl pushed Raoul out of the room by the 
shoulders. He glided swiftly down to the porch, regained his horse, 
mounted, and set off as if he had had Monsieur’s guards at his heels. 


» 


16 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


CHAPTER FV. 
FATHER AND SON, 


RAOUL followed the well-known road, so dear to his memory, which led 
from Blois to the residence of the Comte de la Fére. 

The reader will dispense with a second description of that habitation : 
he, perhaps, has been with us there before, and knows it. Only, since 
our last journey thither, the walls had taken a greyer tint, and the brick- 
work assumed a more harmonious copper tone ; the trees had grown, and 
many that then only stretched their slender branches along the tops of the 
hedges, now, bushy, strong, and luxuriant, cast around, beneath boughs 
swollen with sap, a thick shade of flowers or fruit for the benefit of the 
traveller. 

Raoul perceived, from a distance, the two little turrets, the dovecot in 
the elms, and the flights of pigeons, which wheeled incessantly around that 
brick cone, seemingly without a power to quit it, like the sweet memories 
which hover round a spirit at peace. 

As he approached, he heard the noise of the pulleys which grated under 
the weight of the massy pails ; he also fancied he heard the melancholy 
moaning of the water which falls back again into the wells—a sad, fune- 
real, solemn sound, which strikes the ear of the child and the poet—both 
dreamers—which the English call sf/ash, Arabian poets, gasgachau, and 
which we Frenchmen, who would be poets, can only translate by a para- 
phrase—the notse of water falling into water. 

It was more than a year since Raoul had been to visit his father. He 
had passed the whole time in the household of M. le Prince.- In fact, 
after all the commotions of the Fronde, of the early period of which we 
formerly attempted to give a sketch, Louis de Condé had made a public, 
solemn, and frank reconciliation with the court. During all the time that 
the rupture between the king and the prince had lasted, the prince, who 
had long entertained a great regard for Bragelonne, had in vain offered 
him advantages of the most dazzling kind fora young man. The Comte 
de la Feére, still faithful to his principles of loyalty and royalty, one day 
developed before his son in the vaults of Saint-Denis,—the Comte de la 
Fére, in the name of his son, had always declined them. Moreover, in- 
stead of following M. de Condé in his rebellion, the vicomte had followed 
M. de Turenne, fighting for the king. Then, when M. de Turenne, in his 
turn, had appeared to abandon the royal cause, he had quitted M. de 
Turenne, as he had quitted M. de Condé. It resulted from this invariable 
line of conduct, that, as Condé and Turenne had never been conquerors 
of each other but under the standard of the king, Raoul, however young, 
had ten victories inscribed on his list of services, and not one defeat from 
which his bravery or conscience had to suffer. ; 

Raoul, therefore, had, in compliance with the wish of his father, served 
obstinately and passively the fortunes of Louis XIV., in spite of the ter- 
giversations which were endemic, and, it might be said, inevitable, at that 
period. 

M. de Condé, on being restored to favour, had at once availed himself 
of all the privileges of the amnesty, to ask for many things back again 


which had been granted him before, and among others, Raoul. M.\de la ~ 


Fére, with his invariable good sense, had immediately sent him again to 
the prince. ; : 


A year, then, had passed away since the separation of the father snd ‘ 


) 


HATHER AND SON. 19 


ing with you. The prince kindly appointed me no other, which was so 
much in accord with my wish,” 

“Is the king well ?” 

* Perfectly.” 

“And monsieur le prince also?” 

** As usual, monsieur.” 

The comte forgot to inquire after Mazarin ; that was an old habit. 

‘Well, Raoul, since you are entirely mine, I will give up my whole day 
to you. Embrace me—again, again! You are at home, vicomte! Ah! 
there is our old Grimaud! Come in, Grimaud ; monsieur le vicomte is 
desirous of embracing you likewise.” 

The good old man did not require to be twice told; he rushed in with 
open arms, Raoul meeting him halfway. 

“Now, if you please, we will go into the garden, Raoul. I will show 
you the new lodging I have had prepared for you during your leave of 
absence ; and, whilst examining the last winter’s plantations, and two 
saddle-horses I have just changed for, you will give me all the news of our 
friends in Paris.” 

The comte closed his manuscript, took the young man’s arm, and went 
out into the garden with him. 

Grimaud looked at Raoul with a melancholy air as the young man 
passed out ; observing that his head nearly touched the ¢vaverse of the 
doorway, stroking his white voya/e, he allowed the single word ‘‘GROWN !" 
to escape him, 


CHAPTER Y. 


IN WHICH SOMETHING WILL BE SAID OF CROPOLI.—OF CROPOLI AND 
OF A GREAT UNKNOWN PAINTER. 


WHILST the Comte de Ja Fére with Raoul visits the new buildings he has 
had erected, and the new horses he has bought, with the reader's permis- 
sion we will lead him back to the city of Blois, and make him a witness 
of the unaccustomed activity which pervades that city, 

It was in the hotels that the surprise of the news brought by Raoul was 
most sensibly felt. 

In fact, the king and the court at Blois, that is to say, a hundred horse- 
men, ten carriages, two hundred horses, as many lackeys as masters— 
where was this crowd to be housed? Where were to be lodged all the 
gentry of the neighbourhood, who would flock in in two or three hours 
after the news had enlarged the circle of its report, like the increasing 
circumferences produced by a stone thrown into a placid lake? 

Blois, as peaceful in the morning, as we have seen, as the calmest lake 
in the world, at the announcement of the royal arrival, was suddenly filled 
with the tumult and buzzing of a swarm of bees. 

All the servants of the castle, under the inspection of the officers, were 
sent into the city in quest of provisions, and ten horsemen were despatched 
to the preserves of Chambord to seek for game, to the fisheries of Beuvion 
for fish, and to the gardens of Chaverny for fruits and flowers. 

_ Precious tapestries, and lustres with great gilt chains, were drawn from the 
wardrobes ; an army of the poor were engaged in sweeping the courts and 
was ving the stone fronts, whilst their wives went in droves to the meadows 
bey¥nd the Loire, to gather green boughs and field-flowers, The whole 


Q<——2 


} 
/ 


v4 


20 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


city, not to be behind in this luxury of cleanliness, assumed its best toilette, 
with the help of brushes, brooms, and water 

The kennels of the upper city, swo ien by these continued lotions, became 
rivers at the bottom of the city, and the pavement, generally very muddy, 
it must be allowed, took a clean face, and absolutely shone in the friendly 
rays of the sun. 

Next the music was to be provided: drawers were emptied ; the shop- 
keepers had a glorious trade in wax, ribands, and sword-knots: house- 
keepers laid in stores of bread, meat, and spices. Already numbers of the 
citizens, whose houses were furnished as if for a siege, having nothing 
more to do, donned their festive clothes, and directed their course towards 
the city gate, in order to be the first to signal or see the cortége. They 
knew very well that the king would not arrive before night, perhaps not 
before the next morning. But what is expectation but a kind of folly, and 
what is that folly but an excess of hope? 

In the lowe: city, at scarcely a hundred paces from the Castle of the 
States, between the mall and the castle, in a sufficiently handsome street, 
then called Rue Vieille, and which must, in fact, have been very old, stood 
a venerable edifice, with pointed gables, of squat and large dimensions, 
ornamented with three windows looking into the street on the first floor, 
with two in the second, and with a little @z/ de dbwuf in the third. 

On the sides of this triangle had recently been constructed a parallelo- 
gram of considerable size, which encroached upon the street remorselessly, 
according to the familiar uses of the edility of that period. The street 
was narrowed by a quarter by it, but then the house was enlarged by a 
half ; and was not that a sufficient compensation? 

Tradition said that this house with the pointed gables was inhabited, in 
the time of Henry III., by a Councillor of state whom Queen Catherine 
came, some say to visit, ana others to strangle. However that may be, 
the good lady must have stepped with a circumspect foot over the thresh- 
old of this building. 

After the councillor had died—whether by strangulation or naturally is 
of no consequence,—the house had been sold, then abandoned, and lastly 
isolated from the other houses of the street. Towards the middle of the 
reign of Louis XIII. only, an Italian, named Cropoli, escaped from the 
kitchens of the Marquis d’Ancre, came and took possession of this house. 
There he established a little hostelry, in which was fabricated a maccaroni 
so delicious that people came from miles round to fetch it or eat it. 

So famous had the house become for it, that when Mary de Medici was 
a prisoner, as we know, in the castle of Blois, she once sent for some. 

It was precisely on the day she had escaped by the famous window. 
The dish of maccaroni was left upon the table, only just tasted by the 
royal mouth. 6 

This double favour, of a strangulation and a maccaroni, conferred upon 
the triangular house, gave poor Cropoli a fancy to grace his hostelry with 
a pompous title. But his quality of an Italian was no recommendation 
in these times, and his small, well-concealed fortune forbade attracting too 
much attention. 

When he found himself about to die, which happened in 1643, just 
after the death of Louis XIII, he called to him his son, a young) cook 
of great promise, and, with tears in his eyes, he recommended hive. to 
preserve carefully the secret of the maccaroni, to’ Frenchify his nl, ye 
and at length, when the political horizon should be cleared from the 
clouds which obscured it—this was practised then as in our day,—to rdet 


\3 


CROPOLS, 21 


of the nearest smith a handsome sign, upon which 2 famous painter, 
whom he named, should design two queens’ portraits, with these words as 
a legend :—“ To THE MEDICI.” 

The worthy Cropoli, after these recommendations, had only sufficient 
time to point out to his young successor a chimney, under the slab of 
which he had hidden a thousand ten-franc louis, and then expired. 

Cropoli the younger, like a man of good heart, supported the loss with 
resignation, and the gain without imsolence. He began by accustoming 
the public to sound the final 7 of his name so little, that, by the aid of 
general complaisance, he was soon called nothing but M. Cropole, which 
is quite a French name. He then married, having had in his eye a little 
French girl, from whose parents he extorted a reasonable dowry by show- 
ing them what there was beneath the slab of the chimney. 

These two points accomplished, he went in search of the painter who 
was to paint the sign; and he was soon found. He was an old Italian, a 
rival of the Raphaels and the Caracchi, but an unfortunate rival. He said 
he was of the Venetian school, doubtless from his fondness for colour. 
His works, of which he had never sold one, attracted the eye at a distance 
of a hundred paces ; but they so formidably displeased the citizens, that 
he had finished by painting no more. 

He boasted of having painted a bath-room for Madame la Maréchale 
d Ancre, and moaned over this chamber having been burnt at the time of 
the maréchal's disaster. 

Cropoli, in his character of a compatriot, was indulgent towards Pit- 
trino, which was the name of the artist. Perhaps he had seen the famous 
pictures of the bath-room. Be this as it may, he held in such esteem, we 
may say in such friendship, the famous Pittrino, that he took him into his 
own house. 

Pittrino, grateful, and fed with maccaroni, set about propagating the 
reputation of this national dish, and from the time of its founder, he had 
rendered, with his indefatigable tongue, signal services to the house of 
Cropolt. 

As he grew old he attached himself to the son as he had done to the 
father, and by degrees became a kind of overlooker of a house in which 
his remarkable integrity, his acknowledged sobriety, and a thousand other 
virtues useless to enumerate, gave him an eternal place by the fireside, 
with a right of inspection over the domestics. Besides this, it was he 
who tasted the maccaroni, to maintain the pure flavour of the ancient 
tradition ; and it must be allowed that he never permitted a grain of 
pepper too much, or an atom of parmesan too little. His joy was at its 
height on that day when called upon to share the secret of Cropoli the 
younger, and to paint the famous sign. 

He was seen at once rummaging with ardour in an old box, in whichhe 
found some pencils, a little gnawed by the rats, but still passable ; some 
colours in bladders, almost dried up; some linseed-oil in a bottle, anda 
palette which had formerly belonged to Bronzino, that dew de la prttoure, 
as the ultramontane artist, in his ever young enthusiasm, always called him. 

Pittrino was puffed up with all the joy of a rehabilitation. 

He did as Raphael had done—he changed his style, and painted, in 
the fashion of the Albanian, two goddesses rather than two queens. 
These illustrious ladies appeared so lovely on the sign,—they presented to 
the astonished eyes such an assemblage of lilies and roses, the enchant- 
ing result of the change of style in Pittrino—they assumed the Zoses of 
sirens so Anacreontically—that the principal écheviz, when admitted to 


22 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


view this capital piece in the sa//e of Cropoli, at once declared that these 
ladies were too handsome, of too animated a beauty, to figure as a sign 
in the eyes of passengers. 

To Pittrino he added, “‘ His royal highness Monsieur, who often comes 
into our city, will not be much pleased to see his illustrious mother so 
slightly clothed, and he will send you to the oublictles of the state ; for, 
remember, the heart of that glorious prince is not always tender. You 
must efface either the two sirens or the legend, without which I forbid the 
exhibition of the sign. I say this for your sake, Master Cropole, as well 
as for yours, Signor Pittrino.” 

What answer could be made to this? It was necessary to thank the 
échevin for his kindness, which Cropole did. But Pittrino remained 
downcast and sad: he felt assured of what was about to happen. 

The edile was scarcely gone when Cropole, crossing his arms, said : 
“Well, master, what is to be done ?” 

“We must efface the legend,” said Pittrino, in a melancholy tone. 
“T have some excellent ivory-black ; it will be done in a moment, and we 
will replace the Medici by the nymphs or the sirens, whichever you 
prefer.” 

“No,” said Cropole, “the will of my father must be carried out. My 
father considered 3 

‘“‘He considered the figures of the most importance,” said Pittrino. 

“He thought most of the legend,” said Cropole. 

“The proof of the importance in which he held the figures,” said Pit- 
trino, “is that he desired they should be likenesses, and they are so.” 

“Yes ; but if they had not been so, who would have recognised them 
without the legend? At the present day even, when the memory of the 
Blaisois begins to be faint with regard to these two celebrated persons, 
who would recognise Catherine and Mary without the words ‘ Zo ¢he 
Medici’ ?” 

“But the figures?” said Pittrino, in despair; for he felt that young 
Cropole was right. “I should not like to lose the fruit of my labour.” __ 

“And I should not wish you to be thrown into prison, and myself into 
the oubliettes.” : 

“Let us efface ‘ Medici,’” said Pittrino supplicatingly. 

“No,” replied Cropole, firmly. “I have got an idea, a sublime idea— 
your picture shall appear, and my legend likewise. Does not ‘ Medici’ 
mean doctor, or physician, in Italian ?” 

“Yes, in the plural.” 

“Well, then, you shall order another sign-frame of the smith ; you 
shall paint six physicians, and write underneath ‘dux Medici) which 
makes a very pretty play upon words.” 

“Six physicians ! impossible! And the composition ?” cried Pittrino. 

“That is your business—but so it shall be—I insist upon it—it must be 
so—my maccaroni is burning.” 

This reasoning was peremptory—Pittrino obeyed. He composed the 
sign of six physicians, with the legend ; the é&hevin applauded and autho- 
rised it. 

The sign produced an extravagant success in the city, which proves that 
poetry has always been in the wrong before citizens, as Pittrino said. 

Cropole, to make amends to his painter-in-ordinary, hung up the nymphs 
of the preceding sign in his bedroom, which made Madame Cropole blush 
every time she looked at it, when she was undressing at night. . 

This is the way in which the pointed-gable house got a sign ; | this 


CROPOLI, 22, 
is iow the hostelry of tae Medici, making a fortune, was found to be en- 
larged by a quarter, as we have described. And this is how there was at 
Blois a hostelry of that name, and had for painter-in-ordinary Master Pit- 
trino. 


CHAPTER VI. 
THE UNKNOWN. 


THUS founded and recommended by its sign, the hostelry of Master Cro- 
pole held its way steadily on towards a solid prosperity. 

It was not an immense fortune that Cropole had in perspective ; but he 
might hope to double the thousand louis d’or left by his father, to make 
another thousand louis by the sale of his house and stock, and at length 
to live happily like a retired citizen. 

Cropole was anxious for gain, and was half-crazy with joy at the news 
of the arrival of Louis XIV. 

Himself, his wife, Pittrino, and two cooks, immediately laid hands upon 
all the inhabitants of the dovecot, the poultry-yard, and the rabbit-hutches ; 
so that as many lamentations and cries resounded in the yards of the 
hostelry of the Medici as were formerly heard in Rama. 

Cropole had, at the time, but one single traveller in his house. 

This was a man of scarcely thirty years of age, handsome, tall, austere, 
or rather melancholy, in all his gestures and looks. 

He was dressed in black velvet with jet trimmings; a white collar, as 
plain as that of the severest Puritan, set off the whiteness of his youthful 
neck ; a small dark-coloured moustache scarcely covered his curled, dis- 
dainful lip. 

He spoke to people looking them full in the face, without affectation, it 
is true, but without scruple ; so that the brilliancy of his black eyes became 
so insupportable, that more than one look had sunk beneath his, like the 
weaker sword in a single combat. ; 

At this time, in which men, all created equal by God, were divided, 
thanks to prejudices, into two distinct castes, the gentleman and the com- 
moner, as they are really divided into two races, the black and the white, 
—at this time, we say, he whose portrait we have just sketched could not 
fail of being taken for a gentleman, and of the best class. To ascertain 
this, there was no necessity to consult anything but his hands, long, slender, 
and white, of which every muscle, every vein, became apparent through 
the skin at the least movement, and the phalanges reddened at the least 
crispation. 

This gentleman, then, had arrived alone at Cropole’s house. He had 
taken, without hesitation, without reflection even, the principal apartment 
which the Adé¢elzer had pointed out to him with a rapacious aim, very 
praiseworthy, some will say, very reprehensible will say others, if they 
admit that Cropole was a physiognomist, and judged people at first sight. 

This apartment was that which composed the whole front of the ancient 
triangular house ; a large sa/on, lighted by two windows on the first stage, 
a small chamber by the side of it, and another above it. 

Now, from the time he had arrived this gentleman had scarcely touched 
any,repast that had been served up to himinhis chamber. He had spoken 
butitwo words to the host, to warn him that a traveller of the name of 
Parry would arrive, and to desire that, when he did, he should be shown 
up to him immediately. 

/ 


24 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


He afterwards preserved so profound a silence, that Cropole was almost 
offended, so much did he prefer people who were good company. 

This gentleman had risen early the morning of the day on which this 
history begins, and had placed himself at the window of his sa/oz, seated 
upon the ledge, and leaning upon the rail of the balcony, gazing sadly but 
persistently on both sides of the street, watching, no doubt, for the arrival 
of the traveller he had mentioned to the host. : 

In this way he had seen the little cor¢ége of Monsieur return from hunt- 
ing, then had again partaken of the profound tranquillity of the street, 
absorbed in his own expectation. 

All at once the movement of the poor going to the meadows, couriers 
setting out, washers of pavement, purveyors of the royal household, gab- 
bling, scampering shopboys, chariots in motion, hair-dressers on the run, 
and pages toiling along,—this tumult and bustle had surprised him, but 
without his losing any of that impassible and supreme majesty which gives 
to the eagle and the lion that serene and contemptuous glance amidst the” 
hurrahs and shouts of hunters or the curious. 

Soon the cries of the victims slaughtered in the poultry-yard, the hasty 
steps of Madame Cropole up that little wooden staircase, so narrow and 
so sonorous ; the bounding pace of Pittrino, who only that morning was 
smoking at the door with all the phlegm of a Dutchman ; all this commu- 
nicated something like agitation and surprise to the traveller. 

As he was rising to make inquiries, the door of his chamber opened. 
The unknown concluded they were about to introduce the impatiently 
expected traveller, and made three precipitate steps to meet him. 

But, instead of the person he expected, it was Master Cropole who ap- 
peared, and behind him, in the half-dark staircase, the pleasant face of 
Madame Cropole, rendered trivial by curiosity. She only gave one furtive 
glance at the handsome gentleman, and disappeared. 

Cropole advanced, cap in hand, rather bent than bowing. 

A gesture of the unknown interrogated him, without a word being pro- 
nounced. 

Monsieur,’ said Cropole, “ I come to ask how--—what ought I to say: 
vour lordship, monsieur le comte, or monsieur le marquis ?” yisek® 

“Say monsteny, and speak quickly,” replied the unknown, with that 
haughty accent which admits of neither discussion nor reply. 

“I came, then, to inquire how monsieur had passed the night, and if 
monsieur intended to keep this apartment ?” 

6 Ves.” 

i peasient, something has happened upon which we could not reckon.” 

at ? £ 

“His majesty Louis XIV. will enter our city to-day, and will remain 
here one day, perhaps two.” 

Great astonishment was painted on the countenance of the unknown. 

“The king of France coming to Blois ?” 

“He is on the road, monsieur.” 

: Then there is the stronger reason for my remaining,” said the unknown. 

i Very well ; but will monsieur keep all the apartments ?” 

I do not understand you. Why should I require less to-day than 
yesterday ?” el 
“Because, monsieur, your lordship will permit me to say, yesterday I 
did not think proper, when you chose your lodging, to fix any price ‘that 
might have made you: Jordship believe that I preyudged your resources” 
whilst to-day a , 


THE UNKNOWN, 25 

The unknown coloured ; the idea at once struck him that he was supposed 
to be poor, and was being insulted. 
~ “Whilst to-day,” replied he, coldly, “you do prejudge ?” 

“ Monsieur, I am a well-meaning man, thank God ! and simple Aé¢elzer 
as I am, there is in me the blood of a gentleman. My father was a servant 
and officer of the late Maréchal d'Ancre. God rest his soul !” 

“‘{ do not contest that point with you; I only wish to know, and that 
quickly, to what your questions tend ?” 

“You are too reasonable, monsieur, not to comprehend that our city is 
small, that the court is about to invade it, that the houses will be overflow- 
ing with inhabitants, and that lodgings will consequently obtain consider- 
able prices.” 

Again the unknown coloured. ‘“ Name your terms,” said he. 

“| name them with scruple, monsieur, because I seek an honest gain, 
and that I wish to carry on my business without being uncivil or extrava- 
gant in my demands. Now the room you occupy is considerable, and you 
are alone.” 

“ That is my business.” 

“Oh! certainly. I do not mean to turn monsieur out.” 

The blood rushed to the temples of the unknown; he darted at poor 
Cropole, the descendant of one of the officers of the Maréchal d’Ancre, a 
glance that would have crushed him down to beneath that famous 
chimney-slab, if Cropole had not been nailed to the spot by the question 
of his own proper interests. 

“Do you desire me to go?” said he. ‘Explain yourself—but quickly.” 

“Monsieur, Monsieur, you do not understand me. It is very delicate 
—Iknow—that whichI am doing. I express myself badly, or, perhaps, 
as monsieur is a foreigner, which I perceive by his accent——” 

In fact, the unknown spoke with that slight defect which is the princi- 
pal character of English accentuation, even among men who speak the 
French language with the greatest purity. 

‘As monsieur is a foreigner, I say, it is perhaps he who does not catch 
my exact meaning. I wish for monsieur to give up one or two of the 
apartments he occupies, which would diminish his expenses and ease my 
conscience. Indeed, it is hard to increase unreasonably the price of the 
chambers, when one has had the honour to let them at a reasonable 
price.” 

“How much does the hire amount to since yesterday ?” 

‘““Monsieur, to one louis, with refreshments and the charge for the 
horse.” 

* Very well ; and that of to-day ?” 

“Ah ! there is the difficulty. ‘This is the day of the king’s arrival ; if the 
court comes to sleep here, the charge of the day is reckoned. From that 
it results that three chambers, at two louis each, make six louis. Two louis 
monsieur, are not much; but six louis make a great deal.” 

The unknown, from red, as we have seen him, became very pale. 

He drew from his pocket, with heroic bravery, a purse embroidered with 
a coat-of-arms, which he carefully concealed in the hollow of his hand. 
This purse was of a thinness, a flabbiness, a hollowness, which did not 
escape the eye of Cropole. 

The unknown emptied the purse into his hand. It contained three double 
lovis, which amounted to the six louis demanded by the host. 

But it was seven that Cropole had required. 

Hie looked, therefore, at the unknown. as much as to say, “And then 


26 , THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“ There remains one louis, does there not, master hotelier ?” 

‘Yes, monsieur, but " 

The unknown plunged his hand into the pocket of his haut-de-chausses, 
and emptied it. It contained a small pocket-book, a gold key, and some 
silver. With this change he made up a louis. 

“Thank you, monsieur,” said Cropole. “It now only remains for me 
to ask whether monsieur intends to occupy his apartments to-morrow, in 
which case I will reserve them for him ; whereas, if monsieur does not 
mean to do so, I will promise them to some of the king’s people who are 
coming.” 

“That is but right,” said the unknown, after a long silence ; “but as I 
have no more money, as you have seen, and as I yet must retain the 
apartments, you must either sell this diamond in the city, or hold it in 
pledge.” 

Cropole looked at the diamond so long, that the unknown said, hastily: 

“T prefer your selling it, monsieur ; for it is worth three hundred pis- 
toles. A Jew—are there any Jews in Blois ?—would give you two hundred 
or a hundred and fifty for it—take whatever may be offered for it, if it be 
no more than the price of your lodging. Begone !” 

“ Oh! monsieur,” replied Cropole, ashamed of the sudden inferiority 
which the unknown retorted upon him by this noble and disinterested 
confidence, as well as by the unalterable patience opposed to so many 
suspicions and evasions. ‘Oh, monsieur, | hope people are not so dis- 
honest at Blois as you seem to think; and that the diamond, being worth 
what you say ——” 

The unknown here again darted at Cropole one of his eloquent glances. 

“T really do not understand diamonds, monsieur, I assure you,” cried he. 

‘“ But the jewellers do. Ask them,” said the unknown. ‘“ Now I believe 
our accounts are settled, are they not, monsieur I'hote ?” 

“Yes, monsieur, and to my profound regret ; for I fear I have offended 
monsieur.” 

“Not at all!” replied the unknown, with ineffable majesty. 

“Or have appeared to be extortionate with a noble traveller. Consider, 
monsieur, the peculiarity of the case.” 

“Say no more about it, I desire ; and leave me to myself.” 

Cropole bowed profoundly, and left the room with a stupefied air, which 
announced that he had a good heart, and felt genuine remorse. 

The unknown himself shut the door after him, and, when left alone, 
looked mournfully at the bottom of the purse, from which he had taken a 
small silken bag containing the diamond, his last resource. 

He dwelt likewise upon the emptiness of his pockets, turned over the 
papers in his pocket-book, and convinced himself of the state of absolute 
destitution in which he was about to be plunged. 

He raised his eyes towards heaven, with a sublime emotion of despair- ~ 
ing calmness, brushed off with his hand some drops of sweat which trickled 
over his noble brow, and then cast down upon the earth a look which just 
before had been impressed with almost divine majesty. 

That the storm had passed far from him, perhaps he had prayed e the 
bottom of his soul. 

He drew near to the window, resumed his place in the balcony, and 
remained there, motionless, annihilated, dead, till the moment when, the 
heavens beginning to darken, the first flambeaux traversed the embalmed 
street, and gave the signal for illumination to all the windows of the qity. - 


PARRY, : 2” 


CHAPTER VIL 
PARRY. 


WHILST the unknown was viewing these lights with interest, and lending 
an ear to the various npises, Master Cropole entered his apartment, fol- 
lowed by two attendants, who laid the cloth for his meal. 

The stranger did not pay them the least attention ; but Cropole ap- 
proaching him respectfully, whispered, “ Monsieur, the diamond has been 
valued.” 

“ Ah !” said the traveller. ‘“ Well ?” 

“Well, monsieur, the jeweller of S.A.R. gives two hundred and eighty 
pistoles for it.” 

“ Have you them ?” 

“T thought it best to take them, monsieur ; nevertheless, I made it a 
condition of the bargain, that if monsieur wished to keep his diamond, it 
should be held till monsieur was again in funds.” 

* Oh, no, not at all, I told you to sell it.” 

“Then I have obeyed, or nearly so, since, without having definitely 
sold it, I have touched the money.’ 

ad Pay yourself,” added the unknown. 

*T will do so, monsieur, since you so positively require it.” 

A sad smile passed over the lips of the gentleman. 

“ Place the money on that trunk,” said he, turning round and pointing 
to the piece of furniture. 

Cropole deposited a tolerably large bag as directed, after having taken 
from it the amount of his reckoning. 

“Now,” said he, “I hope monsieur will not give me the pain of not 
taking any supper. Dinner has already been refused ; this is affronting to 
the house of /es Mledicz?. Look, monsieur, the supper. is on the table, and 
I venture to say that it is not a bad one.’ 

The unknown asked for a glass of wine, broke off a morsel of bread, 
and did not stir from the window whilst he ate and drank. 

Shortly after was heard a loud flourish of trumpets ; cries arose in the 
distance, a confused buzzing filled the lower part of the city, and the first 
distinct sound that struck the ears of the stranger was the tramp of ad- 
vancing horses. 

“ The king ! the king !” repeated a noisy and eager crowd. 

“ The king !” cried Cropole, abandoning his guest and his ideas of deli- 
cacy to satisfy his curiosity. 

With Cropole were mingled, and jostled, on the staircase, Madame 
Cropole, Pittrino, and the waiters and scullions. 

The cortege advanced slowly, lighted by a thousand flambeaux, in the 
streets and from the windows. 

After a company of musketeers, and a closely ranked iroop of gentle- 
men, came the litter of monsieur le cardinal, drawn like a carriage by 
four black horses. The pages and people of the cardinal marched 
behind. 

Next came the carriage of the queen-mother, with her maids of honour 
at the doors, her gentlemen on horseback at both sides. 

The king then appeared, mounted upon a splendid horse of Saxon race, 
with a flowing mane. The young prince exhibited, when bowing to some 
windows from which issued the most animated acclamations, a noble and 
handsome countenance illumined by the flambeaux of his pages. 


28 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


By the side of the king, though a little in the rear, the Prince de Condé, 
M. Dangeau, and twenty other courtiers, followed by their people and 
their baggage, closed this veritably triumphant march. The pomp was 
of a military character. 

Some of the courtiers—the elder ones, for instance—wore travelling 
dresses ; but all the rest were clothed in warlike panoply. Many wore 
the vorget and buif coat of the times of Henry IV. and Louis XIII. 

When the king passed before him, the unknown, who had leant forward 
over the balcony to obtain a better view, and who had concealed his face 
by leaning on his arm, felt his heart swell and overflow with a bitter 
jealousy. 

The noise of the trumpets excited him—the popular acclamations deaf- 
ened him: for a moment he allowed his reason to be absorbed in this 
flood of lights, tumult, and brilliant images. 

“He is a king !” murmured he, in an accent of despair. 

Then, before he had recovered from his sombre reverie, all the noise, 
all the splendour, had passed away. At the angle of the street there re- 
mained nothing beneath the stranger but a few hoarse, discordant voices, 
shouting at intervals, “ Vive le Rod /” 

There remained likewise the six candles held by the inhabitants of the 
hostelry des Medicz, that is tosay, two for Cropole, two for Pittrino, and 
one for each scullion. Cropole never ceased repeating, “‘ How good-look- 
ing the king is! How strongly he resembles his illustrious father !” 

‘‘A handsome likeness !” said Pittrino. 

“And what a lofty carriage he has !” added Madame Cropole, already 
in promiscuous commentary with her neighbours of both sexes. 

Cropole was feeding their gossip with his own personal remarks, with- 
out observing that an old man on foot, but leading a small Irish horse by 
the bridle, was endeavouring to penetrate the crowd of men and women 
which blocked up the entrance to the Wedicz. But at that moment the 
voice of the stranger was heard from the window. 

‘“‘ Make way, monsieur l’hotelier, to the entrance of your house !” 

Cropole turned round, and, on seeing the old man, cleared a passage 
for him. 

‘The window was instantly closed. 

Pittrino pointed out the way to the newly arrived guest, who entered 
without uttering a word. 

The stranger waited for him on the landing ; he opened his arms to the 
old man, and led him to a seat. 

“Oh no, no, my lord!” said he, “ Sit down in your presence >—never !” 

“Parry,” cried the gentleman, “I beg you will ; you come from England 
—you come so far. Ah! it is not for your age to undergo the fatigues my 
service requires. Rest yourself.” 

“T have my reply to give your lordship, in the first place.” 

“ Parry, I conjure you tell me nothing ; for if your news had been good, 
you would not have begun in such a manner ; you go about, which proves 
that the news is bad.” 

“My lord,” said the old man, “do not hasten to alarm yourself ; all is 
not lost, I hope. You must employ energy, but more particularly resig- 
nation.” 

“Parry,” said the young man, “I have reached this place through a 
thousand snares and after a thousand difficulties : can you doubt my 
energy? I have meditated this journey ten years, in spite of all counsels 
and all obstacles—have you faith in my perseverance? I have this even- 


\ 


\ 


PARRY. 29 


ing sold the last ot my father’s diamonds ; for I had nothing wherewith 
to pay for my lodgings, and my host was about to turn me out.” 

Parry made a gesture of indignation, to which the young man replied 
by a pressure of the hand and a smile. 

“T have still two hundred and seventy-four pistoles left, and I feel my- 
self rich. I do not despair, Parry ; have you faith in my resignation ?” 

The old man raised his trembling hands towards heaven. 

“Let me know,” said the stranger,—“ disguise nothing from me—what 
has happened.” 

“My recital will be short, my lord; but in the name of heaven do not 
tremble so.” 

“Tt is impatience, Parry. Come, what did the general say to you?” 

“ At first the general would not receive me.” 

“ He took you for a spy ?” 

“Ves, my lord ; but I wrote him a letter.” 

Well 2” 

“He received it, and read it, my lord.” 

“ Did that letter thoroughly explain my position and my views ?” 

“Oh yes !” said Parry, with a sad smile ; “it painted your very thoughts 
faithfully.” 

‘“'Well—then, Parry?” 

“Then the general sent me back the letter by an aide-de-camp, inform- 
ing me that if I were found the next day within the circumscription of his 
command, he would have me arrested.” 

“Arrested !” murmured the young man. ‘“ What! arrest you, my most 
faithful servant ?” 

“Yes, my lord.” 

“ And notwithstanding you had signed the name Parry 2” 

“To all my letters, my lord; and the aide-de-camp had known me 
at St. James’s, and at Whitehall too,” added the old man with a sigh. 

The young man leant forward, thoughtful and sad. 

“Ay, that’s what he did before his people,” said he, endeavouring to 
cheat himself with hopes. ‘“ But, privately—between you and him—what 
did he do? Answer!” 

“ Alas! my lord, he sent to me four cavaliers, who gave me the horse 
with which you just now saw me come back. These cavaliers conducted 
me, in great haste, to the little port of Tenby, threw me rather than em- 
barked me, into a fishing-boat, about to sail for Brittany, and here | am.” 

“Oh !” sighed the young man, clasping his neck convulsively with his 
hand, and with asob. “ Parry, is that all ?—is that all?” 

“Yes, my lord ; that is all.” 

After this brief reply ensued a long interval of silence, broken only by 
the convulsive beating of the heel of the young man on the floor. 

The old man endeavoured to change the conversation ; it was leading 
to thoughts much too sinister. 

“ My lord,” said he, ‘‘ what is the meaning of all the noise which pre- 
ceded me? What are these people crying ‘Vzve le Rot! for? What king 
do they mean? and what are all these lights for ?” 

“Ah! Parry,” replied the young man ironically, “don’t you know that 
this is the king of France visiting his good city of Blois? All those 
trumpets are his, all those gilded housings are his, all those gentlemen 
wear swords that are his. His mother precedes him in a carriage mag- 
nificently encrusted with silver and gold. Happy mother! His minister 
heaps up millions, and conducts him to a rich bride. Then all these 


20 THE VICOMTE DE BkKAGELONNE., 


people rejoice ; they love their king, they hail him with their acclamations, 
and they cry ‘ Vive le Rot! Vive le Rot!” 

“Well, well, my lord,” said Parry, more uneasy at the turn the conver- 
sation had taken than at the other. 

“Vou know,” resumed the unknown, “that sy mother and muy sister, 
whilst all this is going on in honour of the king of France, have neither 
money nor bread ; you know that I myself shall be poor and degraded 
within a fortnight, when all Europe will become acquainted with what you 
have told me. Parry, are there not examples in which a man of my con- 
dition should himself 2 

““ My lord, in the name of Heaven 

“Vou are right, Parry ; I am a coward, and if I do nothing for myself, 
what will God do? No, no; I havetwo arms, Parry, and I have a sword.” 
And he struck his arm violently with his hand, and took down his sword, 
which hung against the wall. 

“What are you going to do, my lord ?” 

“What am I going to do, Parry? What every one in my family does, 
My mother lives on public charity, my sister begs for my mother ; I have, 
somewhere or other, brothers who equally beg for themselves ; and I, the 
eldest, will go and do as all the rest do—I will go and ask charity !” 

And at these words, which he finished sharply with a nervous and 
terrible laugh, the young man girded on his sword, took his hat from the 
trunk, fastened to his shoulder a black cloak, which he had worn during 
all his journey, and pressing the two hands of the old man, who watched 
his proceedings with a look of anxiety,— 

“My good Parry,” said he, “order a fire. Drink, eat, sleep, and he 
happy ; let us both be happy, my faithful friend, my only friend. We are 
rich, as rich as kings !” ; 

He struck the bag of pistoles with his clenched hands as he spoke, and 
it fell heavily to the ground. He resumed that dismal laugh that had so 
alarmed Parry ; and whilst the whole household was screaming, singing, 
and preparing to instal the travellers who had been preceded by their 
lackeys, he glided out by the principal entrance into the street, where the 
old man, who had gone to the window, lost sight of him in a moment. 


») 


CHAPTER VHE 


WHAT HIS MAJESTY KING LOUIS XIV. WAS AT THE AGE OF 
TWENTY-TWO. 


IT has been seen, by the account we have endeavoured to give of it, that the 
entrée of King Louis XIV. into the city of Blois had been noisy and bril- 
liant : his young majesty had therefore appeared perfectly satisfied with it. 
On arriving beneath the porch of the Castle of the States, the king 
met, surrounded by his guards and gentlemen, with S.A.R. the duke, 
Gaston of Orleans, whose physiognomy, naturally rather majestic, had bor- 
rowed on this solemn occasion a fresh lustre and a fresh dignity. On her 
part, Madame, dressed in her robes of ceremony, awaited, in the interior 
balcony, the entrance of her nephew. All the windows of the old castle, 
so deserted and dismal on ordinary days, were resplerident with” ladies 
and lights. 
. It was then to the sound of drums, trumpets, and vzvads, that the young 
king crossed the threshold of that castle in which, seventy-two years 
before, Henry III. had called in the aid of assassination and treachery to 


LOUIS XIV. 31 


keep upon his head and in his house a crown which was already slipping 
from his brow, to fall into another family. 

All eyes, after having admired the young king,so handsome and so agree- 
able, sought for that other king of France, much otherwise king than the 
former, and so old, so pale, so bent, that people called him the Cardinal 
Mazarin. 

Louis was at this time endowed with all the natural gifts which make 
the perfect gentleman: his eye was brilliant, mild, and of a clear azure 
blue. But the most skilful physiognomists, those divers into the soul, on 
fixing their looks upon it, if it had been possible for a subject to sustain 
the glance of the king,—the most skilful physiognomists, we say, would 
never have been able to fathom the depths of that abyss of mildness. It 
was with the eyes of the king as with the immense depth of the azure 
heavens, or with those more terrific, and almost as sublime, which the 
Mediterranean reveals under the keels of its ships in a clear summer day, 
a gigantic mirror in which heaven delights to reflect sometimes its stars, 
sometimes its storms. 

The king was short of stature—he was scarcely five feet two inches ; but 
his youth made up for this defect, set off likewise by great nobleness in all 
his movements, and by considerable address in all bodily exercises. 

Certes, he was already quite a king, and it was a great thing to bea 
king in that period of traditional devotedness a d respect ; but as, up to 
that time, he had been but seldom and always but poorly shown to the 
people, as they to whom he was shown saw him by the side of his mother, 
a tall woman, and monsieur le cardinal, a man of commanding presence, 
many found him so little of a king as to say—“* Why, the king is not so tall 
as monsieur le cardinal !” 

Whatever may be thought of these physical observations, which were 
principally made in the capital, the young king was welcomed as a god by 
the inhabitants of Blois, and almost like a king by his uncle and aunt, 
Monsieur and Madame, the inhabitants of the castle. 

It must, however, be allowed, that when he saw, in the hall of reception, 
chairs of equal height placed for himself, his mother, the cardinal, and 
his uncle and aunt, a disposition artfully concealed by the semicircular 
form of the assembly, Louis XIV. became red with anger, and looked 
around him to ascertain by the countenances of those that were present, if 
this humiliation had been prepared for him. But as he saw nothing upon 
the impassible visage of the cardinal, nothing on that of his mother, 
nothing on those of the assembly, he resigned himself, and sat down, 
taking care to be seated before anybody else. 

The gentlemen and ladies were presented to their majesties and mon- 
sieur le cardinal. 

The king remarked that his mother and he scarcely knew the names of 
any of the persons who were presented to them ; whilst the cardinal, on 
the contrary, never failed, with an admirable memory and presence of 
mind, to talk to every one about his estates, his ancestors, or his children, 
some of whom he named, which enchanted those worthy country gentle- 
men, and confirmed them in the idea that he alone is truly king who knows 
his subjects, from the same reason that the sun has no rival, because the 
sun alone warms and lightens. 

The study of the young king, which had begun a long time before, 
without anybody,suspecting it, was continued then, and he looked around 
him attentively, to endeavour to make out something in the physiognomies 
which had at first appeared the most insignificant and trivial. 


ya THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


A collation was served. The king, without daring to call upon the hos- 
pitality of his uncle, had waited for it impatient y. This time, thereiore, 
he had all the honours due, if not to his rank, at least to his appeute. 

As to the cardinal, he contented himself with touching with his withered 
lips a douzllon, served in a gold cup. ‘The all-powerful minister, whe Rad 
taken her regency from the « queen, and his royalty from the king, had not 
been able to take a good stomach from nature. 

Anne of Austria, already su.fering from the cancer, which six or eight 
years after caused her death, ate very little more than the cardinal. 

For Monsieur, already puifed up with the great event which had taken 
place in his provincial life, he ate nothing whatever. 

Madame alone, like a true Lorrainer, kept pace with his majesty : 
that Louis XIV., who, without this partner, might have eaten nearly Abe 
was at first much pleased with his aunt, and atterwards with M. de Saint- 
Remy, her maitre a’hotel, who had really distinguished himself. 

The collation over, at a sign of approbation from M de Mazarin, the 
king arose, and, at the invitation of his aunt, walked about among the ranks 
of the assembly. 

The ladies then observed—there are certain things for which women _ 
are as good observers at Blois as at Paris—the ladies then observed that 
Louis XIV. had a prompt and bold look, which premised a distinguished 
appreciator of beauty. The men, on their part, observed that the prince 
was proud and haughty, that he loved tolook down those who fixed their 
eyes upon him too long or too earnestly, which gave presage of a 
master. 

Louis XIV. had accomplished about a third of his review when his ears 
were struck with a word which his eminence pronounced whilst convers- 
ing with Monsieur. 

This word was the name of a woman. 

Scarcely had Louis XIV. heard this word than he heard, or rather 
listened to, nothing else ; and neglecting the arc of the circle which 
awaited his visit, his object seemed to be to come as quickly as possible 
to the extremity ‘of the curve. 

Monsieur, like a good courtier, was inquiring of Monsieur le Cardinal 
after the health of his nieces ; ‘he regretted, he said, not having the 
pleasure of receiving them at the same time with their uncle ; they must 
certainly have grown in stature, beauty, and grace, as they had promised 
to do the last time Monsieur had seen them. 

What had first struck the king was a certain contrast in the voices of 
the two interlocutors. The voice of Monsieur was calm and natural while 
he spoke thus : while that of M. de Mazarin jumped by a note anda half to 
reply above the diapason of his usual voice. It might have been said that 
he wished that voice to strike, at the end of the sa/ov, any ear that was too 
distant. 

“* Monseigneur,” replied he, “ Mesdemoiselles de Mazarin have still to 
finish their education ; they have duties to fulfil, and a position to make. 
An abode in a young and brilliant court would dissipate them a little.” 

Louis, at this last sentence, smiled sadly. The court was young, it was 
true, but the avarice of the cardinal had taken good care that it should not 
be brilliant. 

“You have nevertheless no intention,” replied Monsieur, “to cloister 
them or make them dourgeoises 2” 

“Not at all,” replied the cardinal, forcing his Italian pronunciation in 
such a manner as that, from soft and velvety as it was, it became sharp 


LOUIS XIV. 33 


and vibrating ; “not at all: I have a full and fixed intention to marry 
them, and that as well as I shall be able.’ 

“Parties will not be wanting, monsieur le cardinal,” replied Monsieur, 
with a donxhomie worthy of one tradesman congratulating another. 

““T hope not, monseigneur, and with reason, as God has been pleased 
to give them grace, intelligence, and beauty ” 

During this conversation, Louis XIV ,conducted by Madame, accom- 
plished, as we have described, the circle of presentations 

“Mademoiselle Auricule,’ said the princess, presenting to his majesty a 
fat, fair girl of two-and-twenty, who at a village f/e might have been taken 
for a peasant in Sunday finery,—“the daughter of my music-mistress.” 

The king smiled. Madame had never been able to extract four correct 
notes from either viol or harpsichord. 

‘“‘Mademotselle Aure de Montalais,” continued Madame; “a young lady 
of rank, and my good attendant ‘ 

This time it was not the king that smiled ; it was the young lady presented, 
because, for the first time in her life, she heard given to her by Madame, 
who generally showed no tendency to spoil her, such an honourable 
qualification. 

Our old acquaintance Montalais, therefore, made his majesty a profound 
curtsey, the more respectful from the necessity she was under of conceal- 
ing certain contractions of her laughing lips, which the king might not 
have attributed to their real cause. 

It was just at this moment that the king caught the word which 
startled him, 

“And the name of the third?” asked Monsieur. 

“Mary. monseigneur,” replied the cardinal, 

There was doubtless some magical influence in that word, for, as we 
have said, the king started at hearing it, and drew Madame towards the 
middle of the circle, as if he wished to put some confidential question to 
her, but, in reality, for the sake of getting nearer to the cardinal. 

“Madame, my aunt,” said he, laughing, and in a suppressed voice, “my 
geography master did not teach me that Blois was at such an immense 
distance from Paris.” 

“ What do you mean, nephew ?” asked Madame. 

* Why, because it would appear that it requires several years, as regards 
fashions, to travel the distance !—Look at those young ladies !” 

“Well ; I know them all.” 

«Some of them are pretty.” 

el say that too loud, monsieur, my nephew ; you will drive them 
wild.’ 

“Stop a bit, stop a bit, dear aunt !” said the king, smiling; “for the 
second part of my sentence will serve asa corrective to the first. Well, 
my dear aunt, some of them appear old and others ugly, thanks to their 
ten-year-old fashions.” 

“But, sire, Blois is only five days’ journey from Paris.” 

bs Yes, that is it,’ said the king: “two years behind for each day.” 

“Indeed ! do you really think so? Well, that is strange! It never 
struck me.’ 

“Now, look, aunt,” said Louis XIV., drawing still nearer to Mazarin, 
ander the pretext of gaining a better point of view, “look at that simple 
white dress by the side of those antiquated specimens of finery, and those 
pretentious coiffures. She is probably one of my mother’s maids of 
honour, though I don’t know her.” : ; 


34 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


‘Ah! ah! my dear nephew ? replied Madame, laughing ; “ permit me 


to tell you that your divinatory science is at fault for once. The young 
lady you honour with your praise ts not a Parisian, but a Blaisoise.” 

“Oh, aunt !” replied the king, with a look of doubt. 

“Come here, Louise,” said Madame 

And the fair girl, already known to you under that name, approached 
them, timid and blushing, and almost bent beneath the royal glance. 

“ Mademoiselle Louise Francoise dela Beaume Leblanc, daughter of 
the Marquis de la Vallitre,” said Madame, ceremoniously 

The young girl bowed with so much grace, mingled with the profound 
timidity inspired by the presence of the king, that the latter lost, while look- 
ing at her, a few words of the conversation of Monsieur and the cardinal. 

“ Daughter in-law,” continued Madame, “of M de Saint-Remy, my 
mattre ahétel, who presided over the confection of that excellent dazbe 
trufiée which your majesty seemed so much ts appreciate. ' 

No grace, no youth, no beauty, could stand out against such a presenta- 
tion. Theking smiled. Whether the words of Madame were a pleasantry, 
or uttered in all innocency, they proved the pitiless immolation of every- 
thing that Louis had found charming or poetic in the young girl. Mademoi- 
selle de la Vallicre, tor Madame, and by rebound, for the king, was, for a 
mement, no more than the daughter of a man of a superior talent over 
dindes truffées 

But princes are thus constituted. The gods, too, were just like this in 
Olympus. Diana and Venus, no doubt, abused the beautiful Alcmena 
and poor Io, when they descended, for distraction’s sake, to speak, amidst 
nectar and ambrosia, of mortal beauties at the table of Jupiter. 

Fortunately, Louise was so bent in her reverential salute, that she did 
not catch either Madame’s words or the king’s smile. In fact, if the poor 
child, who had so much good taste as alone to have chosen to dress her- 
self in white amidst all her companions,—if that dove’s heart, so easily 
accessible to painful emotions, had been touched by the cruel words of 
Madame, or the egotistical cold smile of the king, it would have anni- 
hilated her. 

And Montalais herself, the girl of ingenious ideas, would not have at- 
tempted to recall her to life ; for ridicule kills beauty even. 

But fortunately, as we have said, Louise, whose ears were buzzing, and 
her eyes veiled by timidity,—Louise saw nothing and heard nothing ; and 
the king, who had still his attention directed to the conversation of the 
cardinal and his uncle, hastened to return to them. 

He came up just at the moment Mazarin terminated by saying : “ Mary, 
as well as her sisters, has just set off for Brouage. I make them follow 
the opposite bank of the Loire to that along which we have travelled ; and 
if I calculate their progress correctly, according to the orders I have given, 
they will to-morrow be opposite Blois.” 

These words were pronounced with that tact—that measure, that dis- 
tinctness of tone, of intention, and reach—which made de/ Signor Giulio 
Mazariné the first comedian in the world. 

It resulted that they went straight to the heart of Louis XIV., and that 
the cardinal, on turning round at the simple noise of the approaching foot- 
steps of his majesty, saw the immediate effect of them upon the counten- 
ance of his pupil, an effect betrayed to the keen eyes of his eminence by 
a slight increase of colour. But what was the ventilating of such a secret 
4 him whose craft had for twenty years deceived all the diplomatists of 

urope ! 2 


eS aren 
oe Pe 


] 
LOUIS XIV. 35 

From the moment the young king heard these last words, he appeared 
as if he had received a poisoned arrow in his heart. He could nc: remain 
quiet in a place, but cast around an uncertain, dead, and aimless look 
over the assembly He with his eyes interrogated his mother more t2., 
twenty times ; but she, given up to the pleasure of conversing with her 
sister in-law, and likewise constrained by the glance of Mazarin, did not 
appear to comprehend any of the supplications conveyed by the looks of 
her son. 

From this moment, music, lights, flowers, beauties, all became odious 
and insipid to Louis XIV. After he had a hundred times bitten his lips, 
stretched his Jegs and his arms like a well brought-up child, who, without 
daring to gape, exhausts all the modes of evincing his weariness—after 
having uselessly again implored his mother and the minister, he turned a 
despairing look towards the door, that is to say, towards liberty 

At this door, in the embrasure of which he was leaning, he saw, standing 
out strongly, a figure with a brown and lofty countenance, an aquiline 
nose, a stern but brilliant eye, grey and long hair, a black moustache, the 
true type of military beauty, whose gorget, more sparkling than a mirror, 
broke all the reflected lights which concentrated upon it, and sent them 
back as lightning. This officer wore his grey hat with its long red plumes 
upon his head, a proof that he was called there by his duty, and not by his 
pleasure. Ifhe had been brought thither by his pleasure—if he had been 
a courtier instead of a soldier, as pleasure must always be paid for at the 
same price—he would have held his hat in his hand. 

That which proved still better that this officer was upon duty, and was 
accomplishing a task to which he was aecustomed, was, that he watched, 
with folded arms, remarkable indifference, and supreme apathy, the joys 
and ezzzzs of this fé¢e. Above all, he appeared, like a philosopher, and 
all old soldiers are philosophers,— he appeared above all to comprehend the 
ennuts infinitely better than the joys; but in the one he took his part, 
knowing very well how to uo without the other. 

Now, he was leaning, as we have said, against the carved door-frame 
when the melancholy, weary eyes of the king, by chance, met his. 

It was not the first time, as it appeared, that the eyes of the officer had 
met those eyes, and he was perfectly acquainted with the expression of 
them ; for, as soon as he had cast his own look upon the countenance cf 
Louis XIV, and had read by it what was passing in his heart—that is to 
say, all the emmuz that oppressed him,—all the timid desire to go out which 
agitated him,—he perceived he must render the king a service without his 
commanding it,—almost in spite of himself. Boldly, therefore, as if he 
had given the word of command to cavalry in battle, “On the king’s ser- 
-vice !” cried he, in a clear, sonorous voice. 

At these words, which produced the effect of a peal of thunder, prevail- 
ing over the orchestra, the singing, and the buzz of the promenaders, the 
cardinal and the queen-mother looked at each other with surprise. 

Louis XIV., pale, but resolved, supported as he was by that intuition of 
his own thought which he had found in the mind of the officer of muske- 
teers, and which he had just manifested by the order given, arose from his 
chair, and took a step towards the door. 

“Are you going, my son ?” said the queen, whilst Mazarin satisfied him- 
self with interrogating by a look which might have appeared mild if it had 
not been so piercing. 

“Yes, madame,” replied the king ; “I am fatigued, and, besides, wish 
to write this evening.” 


3-2 


rp 


TIVE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE., 


36 
oVer the lips of the minister, who appeared, by a bend of 
ive the king permission, 
ieur and Madame hastened to give orders to the officers who pre- 
themselves. | 
king bowed, crossed the hall, and gained the door, where a hedge 
nty musketeers awaited him. At the extremity of this hedge stood 
the officer, impassible, with his drawn sword in his hand. The king passed, 
and all the crowd stood on tip-toe, to have one more look at him. 

Ten musketeers, opening the crowd of the antechambers and the steps, 
made way for his majesty. The other ten surrounded the king and Mon- 
sieur, who had insisted upon accompanying his majesty. The domestics 
walked behind. This little cor#ége escorted the king to the chamber 
destined for him. The apartment was the same that had been occupied 
by Henry III. during his sojourn in the States 

Monsieur had given his orders. The musketeers, led by their officer, 
took possession of the little passage by which one wing of the castle com- 
municates with the other.— This passage was commenced by a small square 
ante-chamber, dark even in the finest days Monsieur stopped Louis XIV. 

“You are passing now, sire,” said he, “ the very spot where the Duc de 
Guise received the first stab of the poniard.” 

The king was ignorant of all historical matters ; he had heard of the 
fact, but he knew nothing of the localities or the details. 

‘Ah !” said he with a shudder. 

And he stopped. The rest, both behind him and before him, stopped 
likewise. 

“The duc, sire,” continued Gaston, “ was nearly where I stand ; he was 
walking in the same direction as your majesty ; M. de Lorgnes was exactly 
where your lieutenant of musketeers is; M. de Saint-Maline and his 
majesty’s ordinaries were behind him and around him. It was here that 
he was struck.” 

The king turned towards his officer, and saw something like a cloud 
pass over his martial and daring countenance. 

“Yes, from behind !” murmured the lieutenant, with a gesture of supreme 
disdain. And he endeavoured to resume the march, as if ill at ease-at 
being between walls formerly defiled by treachery 

But the king, who appeared to wish to be informed, was disposed to give 
another look at this dismal spot. 

Gaston perceived his nephew’s desire. a 

“Look, sire,” said he, taking a flambeau from the hands of M. de Saint- 
Remy, “this is where he fell. There was a bed there, the curtains of which 
he tore with catching at them.” 

“ Whv does the floor seem hollowed out at this spot ?” asked Louis. 

“Because it was here the blood flowed,” replied Gaston ; “the blood 
penetrated deeply into the oak, and it was only by cutting it out that they 
succeeded in making it disappear. And even then,” added Gaston, point- 
ing the flambeau to the spot, “even then this red stain resisted all the at- 
tempts made to destroy it.” 

Louis XIV. raised his head. Perhaps he was thinking of that bloody 
trace that had once been shown him at the Louvre, and which, as a pen- 
dant to that of Blois, had been made there one day by the king his father 
with the blood of Concini. 

“Let us go on,” said he. 

The march was resumed promptly ; tor emotion, no doubt, had given to 
the voice of the young prince a tone of command which was not customary. 


by 


LOUIS XIV. 39 


ee 


with him. When arrived at the apartment destined fo. the king, which 
communicated not only with the little passage we have passed through, but 
further with the great staircase leading to the court,—- 

“Will your majesty,’ said Gaston, “ condescend to occupy this apart- 
ment, all unworthy as it is to receive you ?” 

“Uncle,” replied the young king, “I render you my thanks for your cor- 
dial hospitality ” 

Gaston bowed to his nephew, who embraced him, and then went out. 

Of the twenty musketeers who had accompanied the king, ten recon- 
ducted Monsieur to the reception-rooms, which where not yet empty, not- 
withstanding the king had retired 

The ten others were posted by their officer, who himself explored, in five 
minutes, all the localities, with that cold and certain glance which not even 
habit gives unless that glance belong to genius. 

Then, when all were placed, he ‘chose as his head-quarters the ante- 
chamber, in which he found a large fazteuz/,a lamp, some wine, some 
water, and some dry bread. 

He refreshed his lamp, drank half a glass of wine, curled his lip with a 
smile full of expression, installed himself in his large arm-chair, and made 
preparations for sleeping. 


CHAPTER, IX: 


IN WHICH THE UNKNOWN OF THE HOSTELRY OF LES MEDICI LOSES 
HIS INCOGNITO, 


THIS officer, who was sleeping, or preparing to sleep, was, notwithstand- 
ing his careless air, charged with a serious responsibility. 

‘Lieutenant of the king’s musketeers, he commanded all the company 
which came from Paris, ‘and that company consisted of a hundred and 
twenty men; but, with the exception of the twenty of whom we have 
spoken, the other hundred were engaged in guarding the queen-mother, 
and more particularly the cardinal. 

Monsignor Giulio Mazarini economized the travelling expenses of his 
guards ; he consequently used the king's, and that largely, since he took 
fifty of them for himself—a peculiarity which would not have failed to 
strike any one unacquainted with the usages of that court. 

That which would not, still further, have appeared, if not inconvenient, 
at least extraordinary, to a stranger, was, that the side of the castle destined 
for Monsieur le Cardinal was brilliant, light, and cheerful. The musketeers 
there mounted guard before every door, and allowed no one to enter, except 
the couriers, who, even while he was travelling, followed the cardinal for 
tne carrying on of his correspondence. 

Twenty men were on duty with the queen-mother ; thirty rested, in order 
to relieve their companions the next day. 

On the king’s side, on the contrary, were darkness, silence, and solitude. 
When once the doors were closed, there was no longer an appearance of 
royalty. All the servitors had by degrees retired. Monsieur le prince had 
sent to know if his majesty required his attendance ; and on the customary 
“ No” of the lieutenant of musketeers, who was habituated to the question 
and the reply, all appeared to sink into the arms of sleep, as if in the 
dwelling of a good citizen. 

And yet it was possible to hear from the side of the house occupied by 
the young king the music of the banquet, and to see the windows of the 
great hall richly illuminated. 


* MY Berd, 
38 : | DHE VICOMTE DE BRACELONWE, 


Ten minutes after his installation in his apartment, Louis XIV had been 
able to learn, by a movement much more distinguished than marked his 
his own leaving, the departure of the cardinal, who, in his turn, sought his 
bedroom, accompanied by a large escort of ladies and gentlemen 

Besides, to perceive this movement, he had nothing to do but to look 
out at his window, the shutters of which had not been closed. 

His eminence crossed the court, conducted by Monsieur, who himself 
held a flambeau ; then followed the queen-mother, to whom Madame 
familiarly gave her arm; and both walked chatting away, like two old friends. 

Behind these two couples filed nobles, ladies, pages and officers ; flam: 
beaux gleamed over the whole court, like the moving reflections of a con: 
flagration. Then the noise of steps and voices became lost in the upper 
floors of the castle. 

No one was then thinking of the king, who, leaning on his elbow at his 
window, had sadly seen pass away all that light, and heard that noise die 
off—no, not one, if it was not that unknown of the hostelry des Medicz, 
whom we have seen go out, enveloped in his cloak. 

He had come straight up to the castle, and had, with his melancholy 
countenance, wandered round and round the palace, from which the people 
had not yet departed ; and finding that no one guarded the great entrance, 
or the porch, seeing that the soldiers of Monsieur were fraternising with 
the royal soldiers—that is to say, swallowing Beaugency at discretion, or 
rather indiscretion—the unknown penetrated through the crowd, then 
ascended to the court, and came to the landing of the staircase leading to 
the cardinal’s apartment. 

What, according to all probability, induced him to direct his steps that 
way, was the splendour of the flambeaux, and the busy air of the pages 
and domestics. But he was stopped short by a presented musket and the 
cry of the sentinel. 

“Where are you going, my friend ?” asked the soldier 

“‘T am going to the king’s apartment,” replied the unknown, haughtily, 
but tranquilly. 

The soldier called one of his eminence’s officers, who, in the tone in 
which a youth in office directs a solicitor to a minister, let fall these 
words: ‘“‘ The other staircase, in front." 

And the officer, without further notice of the unknown, resumed his in- 
terrupted conversation. 

The. stranger, without reply, directed his steps towards the staircase 
pointed out to him. On this side there was no noise, there were no more 
flambeaux. 

Obscurity, through which a sentinel glided likea shadow ; silence, which 
permitted him to hear the sound of his own footsteps, accompanied with 
the jingling of his spurs upon the stone slabs. . 

This guard was one of the twenty musketeers appointed for attendance 
upon the king, and who mounted guard with the stiffness and conscious- 
ness of a statue. 

“Who goes there ?” said the guard. 

“A friend,” replied the unknown. 

“What do you want ?” 

* To speak to the king.” 

“Do you, my dear monsieur? That’s not very likely.” 

Why not ?” 

“Because the king is gone to bed.” 

“ Gone to bed already ’——“ Yes.” 


THE UNKNOWN LOSES HIS INCOGNITO. 

* No matter ; I must speak to him.” 

+ And [ tell you that is impossible.” 

“ And yet——" 

“Go back !" 

‘Do you require the word ?” 

“‘T have no account to render to you. Stand back !” 

And this time the soldier accompanied his word with a threatening ges- 
ture ; but the unknown stirred no more than if his feet had taken root. 

‘* Monsieur le mousquetaire,” said he, “are you a gentleman ?” 

“ T have that honour.” 

“ Very well! I also amone; and between gentlemen some considera- 
tion ought to be observed.” 

The soldier lowered his arms, overcome by the dignity with which these 
words were pronounced. 

““Speak, monsieur,” said he; “and if you ask me anything in my 
power——" 

“Thank you. You have an officer, have you not ?” 

*“ Our lieutenant? Yes, monsieur.” 

“ Well, I wish to speak to him.” 

* Oh, that's a different thing, Come up, monsieur.” 

The unknown saluted the soldier in a lofty fashion, and ascended the 
staircase ; whilst the cry, ‘‘ Lieutenant, a visit !” transmitted from sentinel 
to sentinel, preceded the unknown, and disturbed the slumbers of the 
officer. 

Dragging on his boot, rubbing his eyes, and hooking his cloak, the lieu- 
tenant made three steps towards the stranger. 

“What can I do to serve you, monsieur ?” asked he. 

“You are the officer on duty, lieutenant of the musketeers, are you ?” 

“T have that honour,” replied the officer. 

“ Monsieur, I must absolutely speak to the king.” 

The lieutenant looked attentively at the unknown, and in that look, how- 
ever rapid, he saw all he wished to see—that is to say, a person of high 
distinction in an ordinary dress. 

“‘] do not suppose you to be mad,” replied he ; “and yet you seem to 
me to be in a condition to know, monsieur, that people do not enter a 
king’s apartments in this manner without his consent.” 

* He will consent.” 

“Monsieur, permit me to doubt that. The king has retired this quarter 
of an hour ; he must be now undressing. Besides, the word is given.” 

* When he knows who I am, he will recall the word.” 

The officer was more and more surprised, more and more subdued. 

“If I consent to announce you, may I at least know whom to announce, 
monsieur ?” 

“ You will announce his Majesty Charles II., King of England, Scotland, 
and Ireland.” : 

The officer uttered a cry of astonishment, drew back, and there might 
be seen upon his pallid countenance one of the most poignant emotions 
that ever an energetic man endeavoured to drive back to his heart. 

“Oh, yes, sire ; in fact,” said he, “I ought to have recognised you.” 

‘You have seen my portrait, then ?” 

** No, sire.” 

“ Or else you have seen me formerly at court, before I was driven from 
Frayere ?” 

SM o, sire, it is not even that.” 


THE VICOMTE Dit BRAGELONNE. 


“ How, then, could you have recognised me, if you have never seen my 
portrait or my person ?” 

“Sire, I saw his majesty your father at a terrible moment. i 

“The day——” 

66 Yes, ” 

A dark cloud passed over the brow of the prince; then, dashing his hand 
across it, “* Do you still see any difficulty in announcing me? said he. 

“Sire, pardon me,” replied the officer, ‘* but I could not imaginea king 
under so simple an exterior; and yet I had the honour to tell your majesty 
just now that I had seen Charles I. But pardon me, monsieur ; I| will go 
and inform the king ” 

But returning after going a few steps, ‘“‘ Your majesty is desirous, without 
doubt, that this interview should be a secret ?” said he. 

‘““T do not require it ; but if it were possible to preserve it——” 

“Tt is possible, sire, for I can dispense with informing the first gentle- 
man on duty ; but, for that, your majesty must please to consent to give 
up your sword.” 

“True, true; I had forgotten that no one armed is permitted to enter 
the chamber of a king of France.” 

“ Your majesty will form an exception, if you wish it; but then I shall 
avoid my responsibility by informing the king’s attendant.” 

‘“‘Here is my sword, monsieur. Will you now please to announce me 
to his majesty ?” 

“Instantly, sire.” And the officer immediately went and knocked at 
the door of communication, which the valet opened to him. 

“His Majesty the King of England !” said the officer 

“His Majesty the King of Eneland !' rephed the zzet-de- emife 

At these words a gentleman opened the folding doors of the king’s apart- 
ment, and Louis XIV. was seen, without hat or sword, and his pourpot 
open, advancing with signs of the greatest surprise 

“You, my brother—you at Blois !” cried Lou's XIV, dismissing with a 
gesture both the gentleman and the va/et-de chambre, who passed out into 
the next apartment 

Sire,’ replied Charles II., “‘I was going to Paris, in the hope of seeing 
your majesty, when report informed me of your approaching arrival in this 
city. I therefore prolonged my abode here, having something very par- 
ticular to communicate to you.” 

“Will this closet suit you, my brother ?” 

“Perfectly well, sire ; for I. think no one can hear us here.” 

““T have dismissed my gentleman and my watcher ; they are in the next 
chamber. There, behind that partition, is a solitary closet, looking into 
the antechamber, and in that antechamber you found nobody but a solitary 
officer, did you ?” 

*“ No, sire.” 

“Well, then, speak, my brother ; I listen to you.” 

“Sire, I commence, and entreat your majesty to have pity on the mis- 
fortunes of our house.” 


The King of France coloured, and drew his chair closer to that of the 
King of England. 

ny Sire, ” said Charles II., “I have no need to ask if your majesty is 
acquainted with the details of my deplorable history.” 

Louis XIV. blushed this time more strongly than before ; then, stretch- 
ing forth his hand to that of the King of England, “ My brother, 3 s he, 
“Tam ashamed to say SO, but the cardinal peieg ever speaks of polis 


a 


THE UNKNOWN LOSES HIS INCOGNITO. 41 


affairs before me. Still more, formerly I used to get Laporte, my valet-de- 
chambre, to read historical subjects to me ; but he put a stop to these 
readings, and.took away Laporte from me. So that I beg my brother 
Charles to tell me all those matters as to a man who knows nothing.” 

“ Well, sire, [ think that by taking things from the beginning | shall 
have a better chance of touching the heart of your majesty.” 

“Speak on, my brother, speak on.” 

“ You know, sire, that, being called in 1650 to Edinburgh, during Crom- 
well’s expedition into Ireland, I was crowned at Scone. A year after, 
wounded in one of the provinces he had usurped, Cromwell returned upon 
us. To meet him was my object ; to leave Scotland was my wish.” 

“ And yet,” interrupted the young king, “ Scotland is almost your native 
country, is it not, my brother °” 

“Ves; but the Scots were cruel compatriots for me, sire: they had 
forced me to forsake the religion of my fathers ; they had hung Lord Mont- 
rose, the most devoted of my servants, because he was not a Covenanter ; 
and as the poor martyr, to whom they had offered a favour when d ins, had 
asked that his body might be cut into as many pieces as there are cities 
in Scotland, in order that evidence of his fidelity might be met with every- 
where, I could not leave one city, or go into another, without passing under 
some fragments of a body which had acted, fought, and breathed for me. 

“ By a bold, almost desperate march, 1 passed through Cromwell’s army, 
and entered England. The Protector set out in pursuit of this strange 
flight, which had a crown for its object. If I had been able to reach 
London before him, without doubt the prize of the race would have been 
mine ; but he overtook me at Worcester. 

“ The genius of England was no longer with us, but with him. On the 
5th of September, 1651, sire, the anniversary of the other battle of Dunbar, 
so fata! to the Scots, 1 was conquered. Two thousand men fell around me 
before I thought of retreating a step. At length I was obliged to fly. ~ 

“ From that moment my history became a romance. Pursued with per- 
sistent inveteracy, I cut off my hair, I disguised myself as a woodman. One 
day spent arrilst the branches of an oak gave to that tree the name of the 
royal oak, which it bears to this day. My adventures in the county of 
Stafford, whence I escaped with the daughter of my host on a pillion be- 
hind me, still fill the tales of the country firesides, and would furnish matter 
for ballads. I will some day write all this, sire, for the instruction of my 
brother kings. 

“T will first tell how, on arriving at the residence of Mr. Norton, I met 
with a court chaplain, who was looking on at a party playing at skittles, 
and an old servant who named me, bursting into tears, and who was as 
near and as certainly killing me by his fidelity as another might have been 
by treachery. Then I will tell of my terrors—yes, sire, of my terrors— 
when, at the house of Colonel Windham, a farrier who came to shoe our 
horses declared they had been shod in the north.” . 

“ How strange !” murmured Louis XIV. “I never heard anything of 
all that ; I was only told of your embarkation at Brighthelmstone and your 
landing in Normandy.” 

“ Oh !” exclaimed Charles, “if Heaven permits kings to be thus ignorant 
of the histories of each other, how can they render assistance to their 
br thers who need it ?” 

“But tell me,” continued Louis XIV., “how, after being so roughly re- 
ceived in England, you can still hope for anything from that unhappy 
country and that rebellious people ?” 7 


42 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNME. : 


“Oh, sire ! since the battle of Worcester, everything is changed there. 
Cromwell is dead, after having signed a treaty with France, in which his 
name was placed above yours. He died on the 5th of September, 1658, a 
fresh anniversary of the battles of Dunbar and Worcester,” 

“His son has succeeded him.” 

“ But certain men have a family, sire, and no heir. The inheritance of 
Oliver was too heavy for Richard. Richard was neither a republican nor 
a royalist ; Richard allowed his guards to eat his dinner, and his generals 
to govern the republic ; Richard abdicated the protectorate on the 22nd 
of April, 1659, more than a year ago, sire. 

“From that time England is nothing but a tennis-court, in which the - 
players throw dice for the crown of my father. The two most eager players 
are Lambert and Monk. Well, sire, I, in my turn, wish to take part in 
this game, where the stakes are thrown upon my royal mantle. Sire, it 
only requires a million to corrupt one of these players and make an ally of 
him, or two hundred of your gentlemen to drive them out of my palace at 
Whitehall, as Christ drove the money changers from the temple.” 

“You come, then,” replied Louis XIV., ‘to ask me——” 


“For your assistance ; that is to say, not only for that which kings owe _ - 


to each other, but that which simple Christians owe to each other,—your 
assistance, sire, either in money or men. Your assistance, sire, and within 
amonth, whether I oppose Lambert to Monk, or Monk to Lambert, I shall 
have re-conquered my paternal inheritance, without having cost my country 
a guinea, or my subjects a drop of blood, for they are now all drunk with 
revolutions, protectorates, and republics, and ask nothing better than to fall 
staggering to sleep in the arms of royalty. Your assistance, sire, and I 
shall owe you more than I owe my father—my poor father, who bought at 
so dear a rate the ruin of our house! You may judge, sire, whether I am 
unhappy, whether I am in despair, for I accuse my own father !” 

And the blood mounted to the pale face of Charles II., who remained 
for an instant with his head between his hands, and as if blinded by that 
blood which appeared to revolt against the filial blasphemy. 

The young king was not less affected than his elder brother; he threw 
himself about in his fazzezz/, and could not find a single word of reply. 

Charles II., to whom ten years in age gave a superior strength to master 
his emotions, recovered his speech the first. - 

“ Sire,” said he, “your reply? I wait for it as a criminal waits for his 
sentence. Must I die ?” 

“My brother,” replied the French prince, “you ask me for a million— 
me, who was never possessed of a quarter of that sum ! I possess nothing 
-Tamnomore king of France than you are king of England. I am a 

name, a cipher dressed in /eur-de-lised velvet,—that is all. Iam upona 
visible throne ; that is my only advantage over your majesty. I have no- 
thing—I can do nothing.” 

“Can it be so?” exclaimed Charles II. 

“My brother,” said Louis, sinking his voice, “ I have undergone miseries 
with which my poorest gentlemen are unacquainted. If my poor J-aporte 
were here, he would tell you that I have slept in ragged sheets, through 
the holes of which my legs have passed ; he would tell you that afterwards, 
when I asked for carriages, they brought me conveyances half-destroyed 
by the rats of the coach-houses ; he would tell you that when I asked for 
my dinner, the servants went to the cardinal’s kitchen to inquire if there 
were any dinner for the king. And look! to-day, this very day even, 
when I am twenty-two years of age,—to-day, when I haye attained the 


THE UNKNOWN LOSES HIS INCOGNITO. 43 


erade of the majority of kings,—to-day, when I ought to have the key of 
the treasury, the direction of policy, the supremacy in peace and war,— 
cast your eyes around me, see how I am left! Look at this abandon- 
ment—this disdain—this silence! Whilst yonder—look yonder! View 
the bustle, the lights, the homage! There !—there you see the real king 
of France, my brother !” 

“In the cardinal’s apartments ?” 

“Yes, in the cardinal’s apartments.” 

“Then I am condemned, sire 2” 

Louis XIV. made no reply. 

* Condemned is the word ; for I will never solicit him who left my 
mother and sister to die with cold and hunger—the daughter and grand- 
daughter of Henry I1V.—if M. de Retz and the parliament had not sent 
them wood and bread.” 

“To die ?? murmured Louis XIV. 

“ Well!” continued the king of England, “ poor Charles II., grandson of 
Henry IV., as you are, sire, having neither parliament nor Cardinal de Retz 
to apply to, will die of hunger, as his mother and sister had nearly done.”: 

Louis knitted his brow, and twisted violently the lace of his ruffles. 

This prostration, this immobility, serving as a mark to an emotion so 
visible, struck Charles II., and he took the young man’s hand. 

“Thanks !” said he, “my brother. You pity me, and.that is all I can 
require of you in your present situation.” 

“Sire,” said Louis XIV., with a sudden impulse, and raising his head, 
“it is a million you require, or two hundred gentlemen, I think you say ?” 

“Sire, a million would be quite sufficient.” 

“That is very little.” 

“Offered to a single man it is a great deal. Convictions have been 
purchased at a much lower price ; and I should have nothing to do but 
with venalities.” 

“Two hundred gentlemen! Reflect !—that is littlke more than a single 
company.” 

“Sire, there is in our family a tradition, and that is, that four men, four 
French gentlemen, devoted to my father, were near saving my father, 
though condemned by a parliament, guarded by an army, and surrounded 
by a nation.” 

“Then if I can procure you a million, or two hundred gentlemen, you 
will be satisfied ; and you will consider me your well-affectioned brother ?” 

“‘T shall consider you as my saviour; and if I recover the throne of 
my father, England will be, as long as I reign at least, a sister to France, 
as you will have been a brother to me.” 

“Well, my brother,” said Louis, rising, “ what you hesitate to ask for, 
I will myself demand ; that which I have never done on my own accourt, 
I will do on yours. I will go and find the king of France—the other—the 
rich, the powerful one, I mean. I will myself solicit this million, or these 
two hundred gentlemen ; and—we will see.” 

“Oh !” cried Charles, “ you are a noble friend, sire—a heart created by 
God! You save me, my brother ; and if you should ever stand in need 
of the life you restore me, demand it.” 

“Silence, my brother,—silence !” said Louis, in a suppressed voice. 
“ Take care that no one hears you! We have not obtained our end yet. 
To ask money of Mazarin—that is worse than traversing the enchanted 
forest, each tree of which enclosed a demon, It is more than setting out 
to conguer a world.” - : 


‘ 


4A THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“But yet sire, when you ask it——” 

*“] have already told you that I never asked,” replied Louis, with a 
haughtiness that made the king of England turn pale. 

And as the latter, like a wounded man, made a retreating movement— 
* Pardon me, my brother,” replied he. “I have neither a mother nor a 
sister who are suffering. My throne is hard and naked, but I am firmly 
seated on my throne. Pardon me that expression, my brother ; it was that 
of an egotist. I will retract it, therefore, by a sacrifice,—I wili go tc 
monsieur le cardinal. Wait for me, if you please—I will return.” 


CHAPLER US 
THE ARITHMETIC OF M. DE MAZARIN. 


WHILST the king was directing his course rapidly towards the wing of the 

castle occupied by the cardinal, taking nobody with him but his wc/et-de- 

chambre, the officer of musketeers came out, breathing like a man who has 
for a long time been forced to hold his breath, from the little cabinet of 
which we have already spoken, and which the king believed to be quite 
solitary. This little cabinet had formerly been part of the chamber, from 

which it was only separated by a thin partition. It resulted that this par- 

tition, which was only for the eye, permitted the ear the least indiscreet to 

hear every word spoken in the chamber. 

There was no doubt, then, that this lieutenant of musketeers had heard 
all that had passed in his majesty’s apartment. : 

Warned by the last words of the young king, he came out. just in time 
to salute him on his passage, and to follow him with his eyes till he had 
disappeared in the corridor. 

Then, as soon as he had disappeared, he shook his head after a fashion 
peculiarly his own, and in a voice which forty years’ absence from Gascony 
had not deprived of its Gascon accent, “A melancholy service,” said he, 
“and a melancholy master !” 

These words pronounced, the lieutenant resumed his place in his fazteuz/, 
stretched his legs, and closed his eyes, like a man who either sleeps or 
meditates. 

During this short monologue and the mzz'se-en-scene that had accompanied 
it, whilst the king, through the long corridors of the old castle, proceeded 
to the apartments of M. de Mazarin, ascene of another sort was being 
enacted in those apartments. 

Mazarin was in bed, sufiering a little from the gout. But as he was a 
man of order, who utilised even pain, he forced his wakefulness to be the 
humble servant of his labour. He had consequently ordered Bernouin, 
his valet-dz-chambre, to bring him a little travelling-desk, so that he might 
‘write in bed. But the gout is not an adversary that allows itself to be 
conquered so easily ; therefore, at each movement he made, the pain from 
dull became sharp. 

“Ts Brienne there ?” asked he cf Bernouin. 

“No, monscigneur,” replied the valet-de-chambre ; “M. de Brienne, with 
your permission, 1s gcne to bed. But, if it is the wish of your eminence, 
he can speedily be called.” : 

“Neo ; it is not worth while. Let us see, however. Cursed ciphers !” 

And ths cardinal began to think, counting on his fingers the while. 

“Oh! ciphers is it?’ said Bernouin. “Very well! if your eminence 


THE ARITHMETIC OF M. DE MAZARIN, 45 


attempts calculations, I will promise you a pretty headache to-morrow, 
And with that please to remember M. Guénaud is not here.” 

“You are right, Bernouin. You must take Brienne’s place, my friend. 
Indeed, I ought to have brought M. Colbert with me. ‘that young man 
goes on very well, Bernouin, very well ; a very orderly youth.” 

“T do not know,” said the vadet-de-chambre, “but 1 don’t like the coun- 
tenance of your young man who goes on so well.” 

“Well, well, Bernouin! We don’t stand in need of your advice. Place 
yourself there ; take the pen, and write.” 

“TI am ready, monseigneur ; what am I to write ?” 

“There, that’s the place ; after the two lines already traced.” 

“1 ampthere’ 

“Write seven hundred and sixty thousand livres.” 

“That is written.” 

“Upon Lyons ” The cardinal appeared to hesitate. 

“Upon Lyons,” repeated Bernouin. 

“ Three millions nine hundred thousand livres,” 

“Well, monseigneur ?” 

“Upon Pordeaux, seven millions.” 

““ Seven ?” repeated Bernouin. 

“Yes,” said the cardinal, pettishly, “seven.” Then, recollecting him- 
self, “ You understand, Bernouin,” added he, “that all this money is to be 
spent ?” 

“Eh! monseigneur ; whether it be to be spent or put away is of very 
little consequence to me, since none of these millions are mine.” 

“ These millions are the king’s ; it is the king’s money I| am reckoning. 
Well, what were we saying ? You always interrupt me !” 

“Seven millions upon Bordeaux.” 

“Ah! yes ; that’s right. Upon Madrid, four millions. I give you to 
understand plainly whom this money belongs to, Bernouin, seeing that 
everybody has the stupidity to believe me rich in millions. I repel the 
silly idea. A minister, besides, has nothing of his own. Come, go on. 
Rentrées générales, seven millions ; properties, nine millions, Have you 
written that, Bernouin ?” 


“Yes, monseigneur.” 

“ Bourse, six hundred thousand livres ; various property, two millions. 
Ah! I forgot—the furniture of the different chateaux 7 

“Must I put of the crown ?” asked Bernouir, 

“No. no; it is of no use doing that—that is understood. Have you 
written that, Bernouin ?” 

“Yes, monseigneur.” 

* And the ciphers ?” 

“ Stand straight under one another.” 

“Cast them up, Bernouin.” 

“Thirty nine millions two hundred and sixty thousand livres, monseig- 
neur.” 

“Ah!” cried the cardinal, in a tone of vexation; “there are not yet 
forty millions !” 

Bernouin recommenced the addition. 

“No, monseigneur ; there want seven hundred and forty thousand 
livres.” 

Mazarin asked for the account, and revised it carefully. 

“ Yes, but,” said Bernouin, “ thirty nine millions two hundred and sixty 


thousand livres make a good round sum.” 


46 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“* Ah, Bernouin ; I wish the king had it.” 

“ Your eminence told me that this money was his majesty’s.” 
“T)oubtless, as clear, as transparent as possible. These thirty-nine 
millions are bespoken, and much more.” 

Bernouin smiled after his own fashion—that is, like a man who believes 
no more than he is willing to believe—whilst preparing the cardinal’s night 
draught, and putting his pillow to rights. 

“Oh!” said Mazarin, when the valet had gone out; “not yet forty 
millions! I must, however, attain that sum, which I had set down for 
myself. But who knows whether I shall have time? I sink, I am going, 
I shall never reach it! And yet, who knows that I may not find two or 
three millions in the pockets of my good friends the Spaniards? They 
discovered Peru, those people did, and—what the devil! they must have 
something left.” 

As he was speaking thus, entirely occupied with his ciphers, and think- 
ing no more of his gout, repelled by a preoccupation which, with the 
cardinal, was the most powerful of all preoccupations, Bernouin rushed 
into the chamber, quite in a fright. 

“Well!” asked the cardinal, ‘‘ what is the matter now ?” 

“The king, monseigneur,—the king !” 

“ How ?—the king !” said Mazarin, quickly concealing his paper. “The 
king here! the king at this hour! I thought he was in bed long ago, 
What is the matter then ?” 

The king could hear these last words, and see the terrified gesture of 
the cardinal, rising up in his bed, for he entered the chamber at that 
moment. 

“It is nothing, monsieur le cardinal, or at least nothing which can alarm 
you. It is an important communication which I wish to make to your 
eminence to-night,—that is all.” 

Mazarin immediately thought of that marked attention which the king 
had given to his words concerning Mademoiselle de Mancini, and the com- 
munication appeared to him probably to refer to this source. He recovered 
his serenity then instantly, and assumed his most agreeable air, a change 
of countenance which inspired the king with the greatest joy ; and when 
Louis was seated,— 

“Sire,” said the cardinal, “I ought certainly to listen to your majesty 
standing, but the violence of my complaint 

““No ceremony between us, my dear monsieur le cardinal,” said Louis 
kindly : “I am your pupil, and not the king, you know very well, and this 
evening in particular, as I come to you as a petitioner, as a solicitor, and 
one very humble, and desirous to be kindly received, too.” 

Mazarin, seeing the heightened colour of the king, was confirmed in 
his first idea; that is to say, that love thoughts were hidden under all 
these fine words. This time, political cunning, keen as it was, made a 
mistake ; this colour was not caused by the bashfulness of a juvenile 
passion, but only by the painful contraction of the royal pride. 

Like a good uncle, Mazarin felt disposed to facilitate the confidence. 

“Speak, sire,” said he, “and since your majesty is willing for an in- 
stant to forget that I am your subject, and call me your master and 
instructor, I promise your majesty my most devoted and tender con- 
sideration.” 

__ “Thanks, monsieur le cardinal,” answered the king; “that which I 
have to ask of your eminence has but little to do with myself.” 

“So much the worse !” replied the cardinal ; “so much the worse! Sire, 


THE ARITHMETIC OF M. DE MAZARIN. Py] 
I should wish your majesty to ask of me something of importance, even 
a sacrifice ; but whatever it may be that you ask me, I am ready to set 
your heart at rest by granting it, my dear sire.” 

“Well, this is what brings me here,” said the king, with a beating cf 
the heart that had no equal except the beating of the heart of the minis- 
ter: “I have just received a visit from my brother, the king of England.” 

Mazarin bounded in his bed as if he had been put in relation with a 
Leyden jar or a voltaic pile, at the same time that a surprise, or rather a 
manifest disappointment, inflamed his features with such a blaze of anger, 
that Louis XIV., little diplomatist as he was, saw that the minister had 
hoped to hear something else. 

* Charles IJ. ?” exclaimed Mazarin with a hoarse voice and a disdainful 
movement of his lips. ‘‘ You have received a visit from Charles II. ?” 

“From King Charles II.,” replied Louis, according in a marked manrer 
to the grandson of Henry IV. the title which Mazarin had forgotten to 
give him. ‘Yes, monsieur le cardinal, that unhappy prince has touched 
my heart with the relation of his misfortunes. His distress is great, mon- 
sieur le cardinal, and it has appeared painful to me, who have seen my own 
throne disputed, who have been forced in times of commotion to quit my 
capital,—to me, in short, who am acquainted with misfortune,—to leave a 
deposed and fugitive brother without assistance.” 

“Eh!” said the cardinal sharply ; “ why had he not, as you have, a 
Jules Mazarin by his side? His crown would then have remained intact.” 

“‘T know all that my house owes to your eminence,” replied the king 

haughtily, “and you may believe well that I, on my part, shall never for- 
get it.. It is precisely because my brother the king of England has not 
about him the powerful genius who has saved me, it is for that, I say, that 
I wish to conciliate the aid of that same genius, and beg you to extend 
your arm over his head, well assured, monsieur le cardinal, that your hand, 
by touching him only, would know how to replace upon his brow the crown 
which fell at the foot of his father’s scaffold.” 
_ “Sire,” replied Mazarin, “I thank you for your good opinion with regard 
to myself, but we have nothing to do yonder: they are a set of madmen 
who deny God, and cut off the heads of their kings. They are dangerous, 
observe, sire, and filthy to the touch after having wallowed in royal blood 
and covenantal murder. That policy has never suited me,—I scorn it and 
reject it.” 

“Therefore you ought to assist in establishing a better.” 

“What is that ?” 

“The restoration of Charles II., for example.” 

“Good heavens!” cried Mazarin, “does the poor prince flatter himself 
with that chimera ?” 

“Yes, he does,” replied the young king, terrified at the difficulties op- 
posed to this project, which he fancied he could perceive in the infallible 
eye of his minister ; “he only asks for a million to carry out his purpose.” 

“Ts that all?—a little million, if you please !” said the cardinal ironically, 
with an effort to conquer his Italian accent. “A little million, if you please, 
brother! Bah! a family of mendicants !” 

“ Cardinal,” said Louis, raising his head, “that family of mendicants is a 
branch of my family.” 

“Are you rich enough to give millions to other people, sire? Have you 
millions to throw away ?” 

“Oh !” replied Louis XIV. with great pain, which he, however, by a 
strong effort, prevented from appearing on his countenance ;—“ oh ! yes, 


43 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


monsieur le cardinal, I am well aware I am poor, and yet the crown cf | 
France is worth a million, and to perform a good action, I would pledge 
my crown, ifit were necessary. I could find Jews who would be willing to 
lend me a million.” 

“So, sire, you say you wa’ nt a million ?” said Mazarin. 

“Ves, monsieur, I say so.’ 

“You are mista’ cen, greatly mistaken, sire; you want much more than 
that.— Bernouin !— You shall See) ci0G, how much you really want.” 

“What, cardinal !” said the king, fare you going to consult a lackey 
upon my affairs ?” 

“ Bernouin !” cried the cardinal azain, without appearing to remark the 
humiliation of the young prince. “ Co: me ere: Bernouin, and describe the 
account I made you go into just now.’ 

“ Cardinal, car dinal ! did you not fe me?” said Louis, becoming pale 
with anger. 

“Do not be angry, sire ; I deal openly with the a“airs of your majesty 
Every one in France knows that ; my booxs are as open as day. What 
did I tell you to do just now, Bernouin ?” 

“Your eminence comminded me to cast up an account.” 

Vou did it, did you not é 2? 

“Ves, monseigneur,’ 

* To verify the amount of which his majesty, at this moment, stands in 
need. Did I not tell youso? Be frank, my friend.” 

“Your eminence said so.” 

“Well, what sum did I say I wanted C 

“ Forty- five millions, I think.’ 

“And what sum could we find, after collecting all our resources ?” 

“ Thirty-nine millions two hundred and sixty thousand.” 

“That is correct, Bernouin ; that is all 1 wanted to know. Leave us- 
now,” said the cardinal, fixing his brilliant eye upon the young king, who 
sat mute with stupefaction. 

Bury yet ” stammered the king. 

“What, do you stil doubt, sire: ? said the cardinal. “ Well, here is a 
proof of what I said.” 

And Mazarin drew fron under his bolster the paper covered with figures, 
which he presented to the king, who turned away his eyes, his vexation 
was so profound. 

‘“‘ Therefore, as it is a million you want, sire, and that million is not set 
down here, it is forty-six millions your majesty stands in need of. Well, I 
don’t think that any Jews in the world would lend such a sum, even upon 
the crown of France.” 

The king, clenching his hands beneath his ruffles, pushed away his chair 

“So it must be then !” said he; “my brother the king of England will 
die with hunger.” 

“Sire,” replied Mazarin in the same tone, “ remember this proverb, 
which I give you as the expression of the soundest policy: ‘ Rejoice at 
being poor when your neighbour is poor likewise.’ ” 3 

Louis meditated for a few moments, with an inquisitive glance directed 
to the paper, one end of which remained under the bolster. 

“Then,” said he, “it is impossible to come with my demand for 
money, monsieur le cardinal, is it 2” 

“ Absolutely, sire.’ 

“Remember, this will secure me a future enemy, if he succeeds in res 
gaining his crown without my assistance,” 


THE ARITHMETIC OF M. DE MAZARIN. 49 


“If your majesty only fears that, you may be quite at ease,” replied 
Mazarin eagerly. 

“ Very well, | say no more about it,” exclaimed Louis XIV. 

“ Have I at least convinced you, sire?” placing his hand upon that of 
the young king, 

* Perfectly.” 

“If there be anything else, ask it, sire ; I shall be most happy to grant 
it to you, having refused this.” 

“ Anything else, monsieur ?” 

“Why, yes ; am I not body and soul devoted to your majesty? Hola/ 
Bernouin !—lights and guards for his majesty! His majesty is returning 
to his own chamber.” 

“ Not, yet, monsieur ; since you place your goodwill at my disposal, I 
will take advantage of it.” 

“For yourself, sire ?’ asked the cardinal, hoping that his niece was at 
length about to be named. 

‘““ No, monsieur, not for myself,” replied Louis, “ but still for my brother 
Charles.” 

The brow of Mazarin again became clouded, and he grumbled a few 
words that the king could not catch. 


CHAPTERGXI. 
MAZARIN’S POLICY, 


INSTEAD of the hesitation with which he had accosted the cardinal a 
quarter of an hour before, there might be read in the eyes of the young 
king that will against which a struggle might be maintained, and which 
might be crushed by its own impotence, but which, at least, would preserve, 
like a wound in the depth of the heart, the remembrance of its defeat. 

“This time, monsieur le cardinal, we have to do with a thing much more 
easy to be found than a million.” 

* Do you think so, sire?” said Mazarin, looking at the king with that 
penetrating eye which was accustomed to read to the bottom of hearts. 

“Yes, I think so ; and when you know the object of my request 

“And do you think I do not know it, sire ?” 

* You know what remains for me to say to you ?” 

“Listen, sire ; these are King Charles’s own words 4 

“ Oh, impossible !” 

“Listen. ‘And if that miser, that beggarly Italian,’ said he 

* Monsieur le cardinal !” 

“ That is the sense, if not the words. Eh! Good heavens! I wish him 
no ill on that account ; every one sees with his passions. He said to you: 
‘If that vile Italian refuses the million we ask of him, sire,—if we are 
forced, for want of money, to renounce diplomacy, well, then, we will ask 
him to grant us five hundred gentlemen.’” 

The king started, for the cardinal was only mistaken in the number. 

“Ts not that it, sire?” cried the minister, with a triumphant accent. 
*‘ And then he added some fine words: he said, ‘I have friends on the 
other side of the Channel, and these friends only want a leader and a 
banner. When they shall see me, when they shall behold the banner of 
France, they will rally round me, for they will comprehend that I have 
your support. The colours of the French uniform will be worth as much 
to me as the million M. de Mazarin refuses us,—for he was pretty well 

4 


) 


50 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


assured I should refuse him that million.—‘ I shall conquer with these five 
hundred gentlemen, sire, and all the honour will be yours.’ Now, that is 
what he said, or to that purpose, was it not?—turning those plain words 
into brilliant metaphors and pompous images, for they are fine talkers, that 
family ! The father talked, even on the scaffold.” i 

The perspiration of shame stood upon the brow of Louis. He felt that 
it was inconsistent with his dignity to hear his brother thus insulted, but 
he did not yet know how to act with him before whom he had seen every 
one blench, even his mother. At last he made an effort. 

“But,” said he, “ monsieur le cardinal, it is not five hundred men, it is 
only two hundred.” 

“Well, but you see I guessed what’he wanted.” 

“‘T never denied, monsieur, that you had a penetrating eye, and that 
was why I thought you would not refuse my brother Charles a thing so 
simple and so easy to grant him as what I ask of you in his name, monsieur 
le cardinal, or rather in my own.” 

“ Sire,” said Mazarin, “ I have studied policy thirty years: first, under 
the auspices of M. le Cardinal de Richelieu ; and since, alone. This policy 


has not always been over-honest, it must be allowed, but ithas never been _ 


unskilful. Now that which is proposed to your majesty is dishonest and 
unskilful at the same time.” 

“Dishonest, monsieur !” 

* Sire, you entered into a treaty with Cromwell.” 

“Yes, and in that very treaty Cromwell signed his name above mine.” 

* Why did you sign yours so low down, sire? Cromwell found a good 
place, and he took it ; that was his custom. I return, then, to M. Cromwell. 
You have a treaty with him, that is to say, with England, since when you 
signed that treaty M. Cromwell was England.” 

“MM. Cromwell is dead.” 

“Do you think so, sire ?” 

“No doubt he is, since his son Richard has succeeded him, and has 
abdicated.” 

“Ves, that is it exactly. Richard inherited after the death of his father, 
and England at the abdication of Richard. The treaty formed part of the 
inheritance, whether in the hands of M Richard or in the hands of Eng- 
land. The treaty is, then, still as good, as valid as ever. Why should 
you evade it, sire? What is changed? Charles wants that to-day which 
we were not willing to grant him ten years ago ; but that was foreseen and 
provided against. You are the ally of England, sire, and not of Charles II. 
It was doubtless wrong, in a family point of view, to sign a treaty with a 
man who had cut off the head of the brother-in-law of the king your father, 
and to contract an alliance with a parliament which they call yonder the 
Rump Parliament ; it was unbecoming, I acknowledge, but it was not un. 
skilful in a political point of view, since, thanks to that treaty, I saved yout 
majesty, then a minor, the trouble and danger of a foreign war, which the 
Fronde—you remember the Fronde, sire ?’—the young king hung down 
his head—“ which the Fronde might have fatally complicated. And thus 
I prove to your majesty, that to change our plan now, without warning 
our allies, would be at once unskilful and dishonest. We should make war 
with the aggression on our side ; we should make it, deserving to have it 
made against us ; and we should have the appearance of fearing it whilst 
provoking it, for a permission granted to five hundred men, to two hundred 


men, to fifty men, to ten men, is stilla permission. One Frenchman, that | 


is the nation ; one uniform, that is the army. Suppose, sire, for example, 


} 
f 


MAZARIN’S POLICY. 81 


that, soofier or later, you should have war with Holland, which, sooner or 
jater, will certainly happen; or with Spain, which will perhaps ensue if 
your marriage fails” (Mazarin stole a furtive glance at the king), “and 
there are a thousand causes that might still make your marriage fail,— 
well, would you approve of England’s sending to the United Provinces 
or to Spain a regiment, a company, a squadron even, of English gentle- 
men? Would you think that they kept within the limits of their treaty of 
alliance ?” 

Louis listened : it seemed so strange to him that Mazarin should invoke 
good faith, and he the author of so many political tricks, called Mazarinades. 
* And yet,” said the king, ‘‘ without any manifest authorisation, I cannot 
prevent gentlemen of my states from passing over into England, if such 
should be their good pleasure.” 

* You ought to compel them to return, sire, or at least protest against 
their presence as enemies in a country allied with you.” 

‘“Well, but come, monsieur le cardinal, you who are so profound a 
genius, try if you cannot find means to assist this poor king, without com- 
promising ourselves,” 

“‘And that is exactly what I am not willing to do, my dear sire,” said 
Mazarin. “If England were to act exactly according to my wishes, she 
could not act better than she does ; if I directed the policy of England from 
this place, I should not direct it otherwise. Governed as she is governed, 
England is an eternal nest of contention for all Europe. Holland protects 
Charles II., let Holland do so; they will become angry, they will fight. 
They are the only two maritime powers. Let them destroy each other’s 
navy ; we can construct ours with the wreck of their vessels, and shall save 
our money to buy nails with.” 

“Oh, how paltry and mean all that is you tell me, monsieur le car- 
dinal !” 

“Yes, but nevertheless it is true, sire ; you must confess that. There is 
this, still further. Suppose I admit, for a moment, the possibility of breaking 
_ your word, and evading the treaty,-—such a thing sometimes happens, but 
“that is when some great interest is to be promoted by it, or when the treaty is 
found to be too troublesome, —well, you will authorise the engagement asked 
of you: France—her banner, which is the same thing—will cross the 
Straits and will fight ; France will be conquered.” 

** Why so?” 

“ Ma foi! there is a pretty general for us to fight under,—this Charles II.! 
Worcester gave us good proofs of that.” 

“ But he will no longer have to deal with Cromwell, monsieur.” 

“ But he will have to deal with Monk, who is quiteas dangerous. The 
brave brewer of whom we are speaking, was a visionary ; he had moments 
of exaltation, faintings, during which he ran over or split like a too full 
cask ; and from the chinks there always escaped some drops of his thoughts, 
and by the sample the whole of his thought was to be made out. Crom- 
well has thus allowed us more than ten times to penetrate into his very 
soul, when one would have conceived that soul to be enveloped in triple 
brass, as Horace has it. But Monk! Oh, sire, God defend you from ever 
having anything politically to transact with Monk. It is he who has given 
me, in one year, all the grey hairs I have. Monk is no fanatic ; unfortu- 
nately he is a politician ; he does not split, he keeps close together. For 
ten years he has had his eyes fixed upon one object, and nobody has yet 
been able to ascertain what. Every morning, as Louis XI. advised, he 
burns his nightcap. Therefore, on the day when this plan, slowly ‘and 
4-2. 


, 


52 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


_solitarily ripened, shall break forth, it will break forth with all the condi- 
tions of the success which always accompany an unioreseen event. 

“That is Monk, sire, of whom, perhaps, you have never heard—of 
whom, perhaps, you did not know the name even, before your brother, 
Charles II., who knows what he is, pronounced it before you. He is a 
wonder of depth and tenacity, the two only things against which intelli- 
gence and ardour are blunted. Sire, I had ardour when I was young: I 
always had intelligence. I may safely boast of it, because 1 am reproached 
with it. I have done very well with these two qualities, since, from the 
son of a fisherman of Piscina, I am become first minister of the king of 
France ; and in that quality your majesty will perhaps acknowledge I have 
rendered some services to the throne of your majesty. Well, sire, if 1 had 
met with Monk on my way, instead of Monsieur de Beaufort, Monsieur de 
Retz, or Monsieur le Prince—well, we should have been ruined. If you 
engage yourself rashly, sire, you will fall into the talons of this politic 
soldier. The casque of Monk, sire, is an iron coffer, in the recesses of 
which he shuts up his thoughts, and no one has the key of it. Therefore, 
near him, or rather before him, I bow, sire, for I have nothing but a velvet 
cap.” 

‘What do you think Monk wishes to do, then ?” 

“Eh ! sire, if I knew that, I would not tell you to mistrust him, for I 
should be stronger than he ; but with him I am afraid to guess—to guess ! 
—you understand my word ?>—for if I thought I had guessed, I should 
stop at an idea, and, in spite of myself, should pursue that idea. Since 
that man has been in power yonder, I am like those damned souls in 
Dante, whose necks Satan has twisted, and who walk forward, looking 
behind them. I am travelling towards Madrid, but I never lose sight of 
London. ‘To guess, with that devil of a man, is to deceive one’s self, and 
to deceive one’s self is to ruin one’s self. God keep me from ever seeking to 
guess what he aims at ; I confine myself to watching what he does, and 
that is pretty well enough. Now, I believe—you observe the extent of 
the word / believe?—T believe, with respect to Monk, ties one to nothing— 
{ believe that he has a strong inclination to succeed Cromwell. Your 
Charles II. has already caused proposals to be made to him by ten per- 
sons ; he has satisfied himself with driving these ten meddlers from his 
presence, without saying anything to them but, ‘ Begone, or I will have 
you hung.’ That man is asepulchre! At this moment Monk is affecting 
devotion to the Rump Parliament ; of this devotion, observe, I am not the 
dupe. Monk has no wish to be assassinated,—an assassination would 
stop him in the midst of his operations ; and his work must be accom- 
plished ;—so I believe—but do not believe what I believe, sire ; for I say I 
believe from habit—I believe that Monk is keeping well with the parlia- 
ment till the day comes for his dispersing it. You are asked for swords, 
but they are to fight against Monk. God preserve you from fighting 
against Monk, sire ; for Monk would beat us, and I should never console 
myself after being beaten by Monk. I should say to myself, Monk has 
foreseen that victory ten years. For God’s sake, sire, out of friendship for 
you, if not out of consideration for himself, let Charles I]. keep quiet. Your 
majesty will make him a little revenue here ; you will give him one of your 
chateaux. Yes, yes—wait awhile. But.I forgot the treaty—that famous 
treaty of which we were just now speaking. Your majesty has not even 
the right to give him a chateau.” 

“ How is that ?” 


"Yes, yes ; your majesty is bound not to afford hospitality to King 


MAZARIN’S POLICY. 53 
Charles, and to compel him to leave France even. It was on this account 
we forced him to quit it ; and yet here he is returned again. Sire, I hope 
you will give your brother to understand that he cannot remain with us ; 
aoe it is impossible he should be allowed to compromise us-; or I my- 
self—— . 

“Enough, monsieur,” said Louis XIV., rising. “For to refuse me a 
million, perhaps you have the right ; your millions are your own. To refuse 
me two hundred gentlemen, you have still further the right ; for you are 
first minister, and you have, in the eyes of France, the responsibility of 
peace and war. But that you should pretend to prevent me, who am king, 
attording hospitality to the grandson of Henry 1V, to my cousin-german, _ 
to the companion of my childhood—there your power stops, and there 
commences my will.” 

“ Sire,” said Mazarin, delighted at being let off so cheaply, and who had, 
besides, only fought so earnestly to arrive at that,—‘“sire, I will always 
bend before the will of my king. Let my king, then, keep near him, or in 
one of his chateaux, the king of England ; let Mazarin know it, but let 
not the minister know it.” 

“Good-night, monsieur,” said Louis XIV. ; “I go away in despair.” 

‘‘ But convinced ; and that is all I desire, sire,” replied Mazarin. 

The king made no answer, and retired quite pensive, convinced, not of 
all Mazarin had told him, but of one thing which he took care not to men- 
tion to him ; and that was, that it was necessary for him to study seriously 
both his own affairs and those of Europe, for he found them very difficult 
and very obscure. Louis found the king of England seated in the same 
place that he had left him in. On perceiving him, the English prince 
arose ; but at the first glance he saw discouragement in dark letters upon 
his cousin’s brow. Then, speaking first, as if to facilitate the painful 
avowal that Louis had to make to him,— 

“ Whatever may it be,” said he, “1 shall never forget all the kindness, 
all the friendship, you have exhibited towards me.” 

“ Alas !” replied Louis, ina melancholy tone, “only sterile good-will, 
my brother.” 

Charles II. became extremely pale ; he passed his cold hand over his 
brow, and struggled for a few instants against a faintness that made him 
tremble. “I understand,” said he at last ; “no more hope !” 

Louis seized the hand of Charles II. ‘ Wait, my brother,” said he ; 
“»recipitate nothing ; everything may change; it is extreme resolutions 
that ruin causes ; add another year of trial, 1 implore you, to the years 
you have already undergone. You have, to induce you to act now rather 
than at another time, neither occasion nor opportunity. Come with me, my 
brother ; I will give you one of my residences, whichever you prefer, to 
inhabit. I, with you, will keep my eye upon events; we will prepare. 
Come, then, my brother, have courage !” 

Charles II. withdrew his hand from that of the king, and drawing back, 
to salute him with more ceremony, “ With all my heart, thanks !” replied 
he, “sire ; but I have prayed without success to the greatest king on 
earth ; now I will go and ask a miracle of God.” And he went out with- 
out being willing to hear any more, his head carried loftily, his hand 
trembling, with a painful contraction of his noble countenance, and that 
profound gloom which, finding no more hope in the world of men, appeared 
to go beyond it, and ask itin worlds unknown. The officer of musketeers, 
on seeing him pass by thus pale, bowed almost to his knees as he saluted 
him. He then took a flambeau, called two musketeers, and descended 


5A THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


the desert staircase with the unfortunate king, holding in his left hand his 
hat, the plume of which swept the steps. Arrived at the door, the muske- 
teer asked the king which way he was going, that he might direct the 
musketeers. 

“ Monsieur,” replied Charles II,, in a subdued voice, “you who have 
‘known my father, say, did you ever pray for him? If you have done so, 
do not forget me in your prayers. Now, I am going alone, and beg of you 
not to accompany me, or have me accompanied further.” 

The officer bowed, and sent away the musketeers into the interior of 
the palace. But he himself remained an instant under the porch to watch 
the departure of Charles II., till he was lost in the turning of the next 
street. ‘To him, as to his father formerly,” murmured he, “ Athos, if he 
were here, would say with reason,—‘ Salutation to fallen majesty !’” Then, 
reascending the staircase : “Oh! the vile service that I follow !” said he 
at every step. “Oh! my pitiful master! Life thus carried on 1s no longer 
tolerable, and it is at length time that I do something! No more gene- 
rosity, no more energy! The master has succeeded, the pupil is starved 
for ever. Mordioux! 1 will not resist. Come, you men,” continued he, 
entering the antechamber, “ why are you all looking atme so? Extinguish 
these flambeaux, and return to your posts. Ah! you were guarding me? 
Yes, you watch over me, do you not, worthy fellows? Brave fools! Iam 
not the Duc de Guise. Begone! They will not assassinate me in the 
little colander. Besides,” added he, in a low voice, “that would be a re- 
solution, and no resolutions have been formed since Monsieur le Cardinal 


de Richelieu died. Now, with all his faults, that was a man ! It is decided :. 


to-morrow I will throw my cassock to the nettles.” 

Then, reflecting : “ No,” said he, “not yet! I have one great trial to 
~ make, and I will make it; but that, and I swear it, shall be the last, 

moradioux | . 

He had not finished speaking, when a voice issued from the king’s 
chamber. “ Monsieur le lieutenant !” said this voice. 

“ Here am I,” replied he. , 

“The king desires to speak to you.” 

“Humph !” said the lieutenant ; ‘“ perhaps this is for what I was think- 
ing about.” And he went into the king’s apartment. 


CHAPTER XII. 
THE KING AND THE LIEUTENANT. 


AS soon as the king saw the officer enter, he dismissed his valet-de-chambre 
and his gentleman. ‘“ Who is on duty to-morrow, monsieur ?” asked he. 

The lieutenant bowed his head with military politeness, and replied, “I 
am, sire.” 

“How! you still ?” 

“‘T always, sire.” 

“ How can that be, monsieur ?” 

“Sire, when travelling, the musketeers supply all the posts of your 
majesty’s household: that is to say, yours, her majesty the queen’s, and 
monsieur le cardinal’s, the latter of whom borrows of the king thebest 
part, or rather the most numerous part, of the royal guard.” 

“But in the interims ?” 

“There are no interims, sire, but for twenty or thirty men who rest out 
of a hundred and twenty. At the Louvre it is very different, andif I were 


THE KING AND THE LIEUTEWANT. 55 


at the Louvre, I should rest upon my brigadier ; but, when travelling, sire, 
no one knows what may happen, and I prefer doing my duty myself.” 

“ Then you are on guard every day ?” 

“ And every night. Yes, sire.” 

“ Monsieur, I cannot allow that,—I will have you rest.” 

“That is very kind, sire ; but I will not.” 

“What do you say ?” said the king, who did not at first comprehend the 
full meaning of this reply, 

“1 say, sire, that I will not expose myself to the chance of a fault. If 
the devil had an ill turn to play me, you understand, sire, as he knows the 
man with whom he has to deal, he would choose the moment when I 
should not be there. My duty and the peace of my conscience before 
everything, sire.” 

“But such duty will kill you, monsieur.” 

“Eh! sire, I have performed it thirty years, and in all France and 
Navarre there is not a man in better health than Iam. Moreover, I en- 
treat you, sire, not to trouble yourself about me. That would appear very 
strange to me, seeing that I am not accustomed to it.” 

The king cut short the conversation by a fresh question. “Shall you be 
here, then, to-morrow morning ?” 

“As at present’ yes, sire.” 

The king walked several times up and down his chamber ; it was very 
plain that he burned with a desire to speak, but that he was restrained by 
some fear or other. The lieutenant, standing motionless, hat in hand, 
leaning on his hip, watched him making these evolutions, and, whilst look- 
ing at him, grumbled to himself, biting his moustache. 

“For a demi-pistole, he has not resolution enough! Parole@honneur ! 
I would lay a wager he does not speak at all !” 

The king continued to walk about, casting from time to time a side 
glance at the lieutenant. “ He is the very spit of his father,” continued the 
latter, in his secret monologue ; “he is at once proud, avaricious, and 
timid. The devil take his master, say I.” 

The king stopped. ‘“ Lieutenant,” said he. 

“Team: here, sire.” 

“Why did you cry out this evening, down below in the sa/ozs—‘ On the 
king’s service! His majesty’s musketeers !’” 

“Because you gave me the order, sire.” 

(7 I pe) 

“ Vourself.” 

“Indeed, I did not say a word, monsieur.” 

“ Sire, an order is given bya sign, by a gesture, by a glance, as intel- 
ligibly, as freely, and as clearly as by word of mouth. A servant who has 
nothing but ears, is not halfa good servant.” 

“Your eyes are very penetrating, then, monsieur.” 

“ How is that, sire ?” 

“* Because they see what is not.” 

“‘ My eyes are good, though, sire, although they have served their master 
long and much ; when they have anything to see, they seldom miss the 
opportunity. Now, this evening, they saw that your majesty coloured 
with endeavouring to conceal your inclination to gape ; that your majesty 
looked with eloquent supplications, first at his eminence, and then at her 
majesty the queen-mother, and at length to the door of entrance ; and they 
so thoroughly remarked all I have said, that they saw your majesty’s lips 
articulate these words ; ‘Who will get me out of this?” ; 


_ 


56 TH: VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“ Monsieur !” 

“ Or something to this effect, sire,—‘ My musketeers JI could thenno 
longer hesitate. That look was for me—the order was for me. I cried out 
instantly, ‘ Hismajesty’s musketeers !’ And, besides, that is proved to be 
true, sire, not only by your majesty’s not saying I was wrong, but proving 
I was right by going out at once.” 

The king turned away to smile ; then, after a few seconds, he again fixed 
his limpid eye upon that countenance, so intelligent, so bold, and so firm, 
’ that it might have been said to be the proud and energetic profile of the 
eagle in face of the sun. <hatas all very well,” said he, after a short 
silence, during which he endeavoured, in vain, to look his officer down. 

But, seeing the king said no more, the latter pirouetted on his heels, and 
made three steps towards the door, muttering, “ He will not speak ! Mor- 
dioux ! he will not speak !” 

“Thank you, monsieur,” said the king at last. 

“‘ Humph !” continued the lieutenant ; ‘there only wanted that. Blamed 
for having been less of a fool than another might have been.” And he 
gained the door, allowing his spurs to jingle in true military style. But 
when he was upon the threshold, feeling that the king’s desire drew him 
back, he returned. Zl 

“ Has your majesty told me all?” asked he, in a tone we cannot de- 
scribe, but which, without appearing to solicit the royal confidence, con- 
tained so much persuasive frankness, that the king immediately replied : 

“Yes; but draw near, monsieur.” 

“ Now, then,” murmured the officer, “he is coming to it at last.” 

“Listen to. me.” 

* IT will not lose a word, sire.” 

~“You will mount on horseback to-morrow, at about half past four in the 
morning, and you will have a horse saddled for me.” 

‘“‘From your majesty’s stables ?” 

“ No; one of your musketeers’ horses.” 

“Very well, sire. Is that all?” 

“ And you will accompany me.” 

“ Alone ?” 

** Alone.” 

“Shall I come to seek your majesty, or shall I wait ?” 

“You will wait for me.” 

“Where, sire ?” 

“ At the little park-gate.” 3 

The lieutenant bowed, understanding that the king had told him all he 
had to say. In fact, the king dismissed him with a gracious wave of the 
hand. The off:cer left the chamber of the king, and returned to place him- 
self philosophically in his fazteuz/, where, far from sleeping, as might have 
been expected, considering how late it was, he began to reflect more pro- 
foundly than he had ever reflected before. The result of these reflections 
was not so melancholy as the preceding ones had been. | 

“Come, he has begun,” said he. ‘“ Love urges him on, and he goes for- 
ward—he goes forward! The king is nobody in his own palace ; but the 
man perhaps may prove to be worth something. Well, we shall see to- 
morrow morning. Oh! oh!” cried he, all at once’starting up, “that is a 
gigantic idea, mordioux / and perhaps my fortune depends, at least, upon 
that idea!” After this exclamation, the officer arose and marched, with 
his hands in the pockets of his jus¢aucorps, about the immense ante- 
chamber that served him as an apartment. The wax-light flamed furiously 


THE KING AND THE LIEUTENANT. 7 
under the effects of a fresh breeze which stole in through the chinks of the 
door and the window, and cut the sad/e diagonally. It threw out a reddish, 
unequal light, sometimes brilliant, sometimes dull, and the tall shadow of 
the lieutenant was seen marching on the wall, in profile, like a figure by 
Callot, with his long sword and feathered hat. 

““Certes !” said he, ‘‘ I am mistaken if Mazarin is not laying a snare for 
this amorous boy. Mazarin, this evening, gave an address, and made an 
appointment as complacently as M. Dangeau himself could have done—I 
heard him, and I know the meaning of his words. ‘To-morrow morning,’ 
said he, ‘they will pass opposite the bridge of Blois.’ A/ordioux/ that is 
clear enough, and particularly for a lover. That is the cause of this em- 
barrassment ; that is the cause of this hesitation ; that is the cause of this 
order,— ‘ Monsieur the lieutenant of my musketeers, be on horseback to- 
morrow at four o’clock in the morning.’ Which is as clear as if he had 
said,—‘ Monsieur the lieutenant of my musketeers, to-morrow, at four, at 
the bridge of Blois,—do you understand? Here is a state secret, then, 
which I, humble as I am, have in my possession, while itis in action. And 
how do I get it? Because I have good eyes, as his majesty just now said. 
They say he loves this little Italian doll furiously. They say he threw 
himself at his mother’s feet, to ask her to allow him to marry her. They 
say the queen went so far as to consult the court of Rome, whether sucha 
marriage, contracted against her will, would be valid. Oh, if 1 were but 
twenty-five! If I had by my side those I no longer have! If I did not 
despise the whole world most profoundly, I would embroil Mazarin with 
the queen-mother, France with Spain, and I would make a queen after 
my own fashion. But let that pass.” Andthe lieutenant snapped his fingers 
in disdain. 

“ This miserable Italian—this poor creature—this sordid wretch—who 
has just refused the king of England a million, would not perhaps give 
me a thousand pistoles for the news I could carry him. Mordioux/ 1 am 
falling into second childhood ;—I am becoming stupid indeed! The idea 
of Mazarin giving anything! ha! ha! ha!” and he laughed in a subdued 
voice. 

“Well, let us go to sleep—let us go to sleep ; and the sooner the better. 
My mind is fatigued with my evening’s work, and will see things to-morrow 
more clearly than to-day.” 

And upon this recommendation, made to himself, he folded his cloak 
around him, looking with contempt upon his royal neighbour. Five minutes 
after this he was asleep, with his hands clenched and his lips apart, allow- 
ing to escape, not his secret, but a sonorous sound, which rose and spread 
freely beneath the majestic roof of the ante-chamber. 


CHAPTER AIII. 
MARY DE MANCINI. 


THE sun had scarcely enlightened the majestic trees of the park and the 
lofty turrets of the castle with its first beams, when the young king, who 
had been awake more than two hours, possessed by the sleeplessness of 
love, opened his shutters himself, and cast an inquiring look into the courts 
of the sleeping palace. He saw that it was the hour agreed upon: the 
great court clock pointed to a quarter past four. He did not disturb his 
valet-de-chambre, who was sleeping profoundly at some distance; he 
dressed himself, and the valet, in a great fright, sprang up, thinking he had 


53 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


been deficient in his duty ; but the king sent him back again, command: 
ing him to preserve the most absolute silence. He then descended the 
little staircase, went out at a lateral door, and perceived at the end of the 
wall a mounted horseman, holding another horse by the bridle, This 
horseman was not to be recognised in his cloak and slouched hat As to 
the horse, saddled like that of a rich citizen, it had nothing remarkable 
about it to the most experienced eye Louis took the bridle; the officer 
held the stirrup without dismounting, and asked his majesty’s orders in a 
low voice. 

“Follow me,” replied the king. 

The officer put his horse to the trot, behind that of his master, and they 
descended the hill towards the bridge. When arrived at the other side of 
the Loire,— 

“ Monsieur,” said the king, “you will please to ride on till you seea car- 
riage coming ; then returnand inform me. I will wait here ” 

“Will your majesty deign to give me some description of the carriage I 
am charged to discover ?” 

“ A carriage in which you will see two ladies, and probably their atten- 
dants likewise.” 

“ Sire, I should not wish to make a mistake ; is there no other sign by 
which I may know this carriage ?” 

“Tt will bear, in all probability, the arms of monsieur fe cardinal.” 

“ That is sufficient, sire,” replied the officer, fully instructed in the object 
of his search. He put his horse to the trot, and rode sharply on tn the 
direction pointed out by the king But he had scarcely gone five hundred 
paces when he saw four mules, and then a carriage, loom up from behind 
a little hill) Behind this carriage came another. It required only one 
elance to assure him that these were the equipages he was in search of ; 
he therefore turned his bridle, and rode back to the king 

“ Sire,” said he, “here are the carriages. The first, as you said, contains 
two ladies with their fewemes-de-chambre , the second contains the footmen, 
provisions, and necessaries.” 

“That is well,” replied the king, in an agitated voice. “ Please to go and 
tell those ladies that a cavalier of the court wishes to pay his respects to 
them alone.” 

_ The officer set off at a gallop. “ MWordioux /' said he, as he rode on, 
“here is a new and honourable employment, I hope! I complained of 
being nobody. I am the king’s confidant: that is enough to make a 
musketeer burst with pride.” 

He approached the carriage, and delivered his message, gallantly and 
intelligently. There were two ladies in the carriage : one of great beauty, 
although rather thin ; the other less favoured by nature, but lively, grace- 
ful, and uniting in the light folds of her brow all the signs of a strong will. 
Her eyes, animated and piercing, in particular, spoke more eloquently than 
all the amorous phrases in fashion in those days of gallantry It was to 
her D’Artagnan addressed himself, without fear of being mistaken, although 
the other was, as we have said, the more handsome of the two. 

‘“‘ Madame,” said he, ‘I am the lieutenant of the musketeers, and there 
is on the road a cavalier who awaits you, and is desirous of paying his 
respects to you.” ; 

At these words, the effect of which he watched closely, the lady with the 
black eyes uttered a cry of joy, leant out of the carriage window, and, 
seeing the cavalier approaching, held out her arms, exclaiming : 

“ Ah, my dear sire !” and the tears gushed from her eyes, 


MARY DE MANCINZ. . 9 


The coachmanstopped his team ; the women rose in confusion from the 
bottom of the carriage, and the second lady made a slight reverence, ter- 
minated by the most ironical smile that jealousy ever imparted to the lips 
of woman. 

“Mary, dear Mary !” cried the king, taking the hand of the black-eyed 
lady in both his. And opening the heavy door himself, he drew her out of 
the carriage with so much ardour, that she was in his arms before she 
touched the ground. The lieutenant, posted on the other side of the car- 
riage, saw and heard all without being observed. 

‘The king offered his arm to Mademoiselle de Mancini, and madea sign 
to the coachman and lackeys to proceed. It was nearly six o’clock ; the 
road was fresh and pleasant; tall trees with the foliage still enclosed in 
the golden down of their buds, let the dew of morning filter from their 
trembling branches, like liquid diamonds ; the grass was bursting at the 
foot of the hedges; the swallows, only a few days returned, described their 
graceful curves between the heavens and the water; a breeze, perfumed 
by the blossoming woods, sighed along the road, and wrinkled the surface 
of the waters of the river: allthese beauties of the day, all these perfumes 
of the plants, all these aspirations of the earth towards the heavens, in- 
toxicated the two lovers, walking side by side, leaning upon each other, 
eyes fixed upon eyes, hand clasped within hand, and who, lingering as by 
a common desire, did not care to speak, they had so much to say. 

The officer saw that the king’s horse pulled this way and that, and incon- 
venienced Mademoiselle de Mancini. He took advantage of the pretext 
of taking the horse to draw near to them, and dismounted, and walking 
between the two horses he led, he did not lose a single word or gesture of 
the lovers It was Mademoiselle de Mancini who at length began. 

‘Ah, my dear sire !” said she, “ you do not abandon me, then ?” 

““No,” replied the king ; “ you see I do not, Mary.” 

“T had been so often told, though, that as soon as we should be sepa- 
rated you would no longer think of me.” 

“Dear Mary, is it then to-day only that you have discovered we are 
surrounded by people interested’in deceiving us ?” 

“But then, sire, this journey, this alliance with Spain? They are going 
tomarry you !” 

Louis hunghis head. At the same time the officer could see in the sun 
the eyes of Mary de Mancini shine with the brilliancy of a poniard starting 
from its sheath. “And you have done nothing in favour of our love ?” 
asked the girl, after a silence of a moment. 

* Ah! mademoiselle, how could you believe that? I threw myself at 
the feet of my mother ; I begged her, I implored her ; I told her all my 
hopes of happiness were in you ; I even threatened -——” 

“ Well?” asked Mary, eagerly. 

“Well, the queen mother wrote to the court of Rome, and received as 
answer, that a marriage between us would have no validity, and would be 
dissolved by the holy father At length, finding there was no hope for us, 
I requested to have my marriage with the infanta at least delayed.” 

“And yet that does not prevent your being on the road to meet her ?” 

“What would you have? To my prayers, to my supplications, to my 
tears, I received no answer but reasons of state.” 

“ Well, well ?” 

“Well, what is to be done, mademoiselle, when so many wills are 
leagued against me ?” 

It was now Mary’s turn to hang her head, “Then I must bid you adieu 


60 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


for ever,” saidshe. “You know that I am being exiled ; you know that 
I am going to be buried alive ; you know still more that they want to marry 


me also.” 
Louis became very pale, and placed his hand upon his heart. 


“Tf I had thought that my life only had been at stake, I have been so 
persecuted that I might have yielded ; but I thought yours was concerned, _ 
my dear sire, and I stood out for the sake of preserving your happiness.” 

“Oh, yes! my happiness, my treasure!” murmured the king, more 
gallantly than passionately, perhaps. 

“ The cardinal might have yielded,” said Mary, “if you had addressed 
yourself to him, if you had pressed him. For the cardinal to call the king 
of France his nephew ! do you not perceive, sire? He would have made 
war even for that honour ; the cardinal, assured of governing alone, under 
the double pretext of having brought up the king and given his niece to 
him in marriage—the cardinal would have combated all wills, overcome 
all obstacles. Oh, sire! I can answer for that. I am a woman, and I see 
clearly into everyihing where love is concerned.” 

These words produced a strange effect upon the king. Instead of 
heightening his passion, they cooled it. He stopped, and said with pre- 
cipitation : =aig 

“What is to be said, mademoiselle? Everything has failed.” 

“Except your will, I trust, my dear sire »” 

“ Alas !” said the king, colouring, ‘‘ have I a will ?” 

“ Oh !” allowed mademoiselle de Mancini to escape mournfully, wounded 


by that expression. 
“The king has no will but that which policy dictates, but that which 


reasons of state impose upon him.” 
“Oh! it is because you have no love,” cried Mary; “if you loved, sire, 


you would have a will.” 

On pronouncing these words, Mary raised her eyes to her lover, whom 
she saw more pale and more cast lown than an exile whois about to quit 
his native land for ever. ‘ Accuse me,” murmured the king, “but do not 
say I do not love you.” 

A long silence followed these words, which the young king had pro- 
nounced with a perfectly true and profound feeling. ‘I am unable to 
think that to-morrow, and after to-morrow, I shall see you no more; I 
cannot think that Iam going to end my sad days ata distance from Paris ; 
that the lips of an old man, of an unknown, should touch that hand which 
you hold within yours ; no, in truth, I cannot think of all that, my dear 
sire, without my poor heart bursting with despair.” 

And Mary de Mancini did shed floods of tears. On his part, the king, 
affected, carried his handkerchief to his mouth, and stifled a sob. 

“See,” said she, “ the carriages have stopped, my sister waits for me, the 
time is come ; what you are about to decide upon, will be decided for life. 
Oh, sire! you are willing then that I should lose you? You are willing 
then, Louis, that she to whom you have said ‘I love you,’ should belong 
to another man than to her king, to her master, to her lover? Oh! 
courage, Louis ! courage ! One word, a single word! Say ‘I will !’ and all 
my life is enchained to yours, and all my heart is yours for ever.” 

The king made no reply. Mary then looked at him as Dido looked at 
Eneas in the Elysian fields, fierce and disdainful. " 

“‘ Adieu, then,” said she ; “adieu life! adieu love! adieu heaven !” 

And she made a step to depart. The king detained her, seized her hand, 
which he glued to his lips, and, despair prevailing over the resolution he 


MARY DE MANCINI, GI 


appeared to have inwardly formed, he let fall upon that beautiful hand a 
burning tear of regret, which made Mary start, so really had that tear 
burnt her. She saw the humid eyes of the king, his pale brow, his con- 
vulsed lips, and cired, with an acccnt that cannot be described : 

“ Oh, sire! you are a king, you weep, and yet I depart !” 

As his sole reply, the king concealea his face in his handkerchief. The 
officer here uttered something so like a roar that it frightened the horses. 
Mademoiselle de Mancini, quite indignant, quitted the king’s arm, got pre- 
cipitately into the carriage, crying to the coachman,—*“ Go on, go on, and 
quick !” 

The coachman obeyed, flogged his mules, and the heavy carriage rocked 
upon its creaking axle, whilst the king of France, alone, cast down, annihi- 
lated, did not dare to look either behind or before him, 


CHAPTER XIV. 


IN WHICH THE KING AND THE LIEUTENANT EACH GIVE PROOFS OF 
MEMORY. 


WHEN the king, like all the people in the world who are in love, had long 
and attentively watched the disappearance in the horizon of the carriage 
which bore away his mistress ; when he had turned and turned again a 
hundred times to the same way, and had at length succeeded in calming 
in a degree the agitation of his heart and thoughts. he recollected that he 
was not alone. ‘The officer still held the horse by the bridle, and had not 
lost all hope of seeing the king recover his resolution. He had still the 
resource of mounting, and riding after the carriage ; they would have lost 
nothing by waiting alittle. But the imagination of the lieutenant was too 
rich and too brilliant ; it left far behind it that of the king, who took care 
not to allow himself to be carried away by such an excess of luxury. He 
contented himself with approaching the officer, and in a doleful voice, 
“Come,” said he, “let us be gone; all is ended. To horse .” 

The officer imitated this carriage, this slowness, this sadness, and lei- 
surely mounted his horse. The king pushed on sharply, the heutenant 
followed him. At the bridge Louis turned round for the last time. The 
lieutenant, patient as a god who has eternity behind and before him, still 
hoped for a return of energy. But it was groundless, nothing appeared. 
Louis gained the street which led to the castle, and entered as seven was 
striking. When once the king was returned, and the musketeer, who saw 
everything, had seen a corner of the tapestry rise at the window of the 
cardinal, he breathed a profound sigh, like a man unloosed from the 
tightest bonds, and said in a low voice : 

‘“‘ Now then, my officer, I hope that it is over.” 

The king summoned his gentleman ‘“ Please to understand I shall 
receive nobody pelore two oclock,’ said he 

“Sire, replied the gentleman, " there is, however, some one who requests 
admittance. ’ 

“ Who is that ? ——“ Your lieutenant of musketeers.” 

“ He who accompanied me?” ‘“Yes, sire, 

“ Ah " said the king, * let him come in” 

The officer entered. The king made a sign, and the gentieman and the 
valet retired. Louis followed them with his eyes until they had shut the 
door, and when the tapestries had fallen behind them,— You remind me 


62 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


by your presence, monsieur, of something I had forgotten to recommend 
to you, that is to say, the most absolute discretion.” 

“Oh! sire, why does your majesty give yourself the trouble of making 
me such a recommendation? It is plain you de not know me.” 

“Yes, monsieur, that is true. I know that you are discreet ; but as I had » 
prescribed nothing ‘ ; 

The officer bowed. ‘‘ Has your majesty nothing else to say to me?” 

““ No, Monsieur; you may retire,” 

‘Shall I obtain permission not to do so till I have spoken to the king, 
Sire?” 

‘What have you to saytome? Explain yourself, monsieur.” 

*« Sire, a thing without importance to you, but which interests. me greatly, 
Pardon me then for speaking of it. Without urgency, without necessity, 
I never would have done it, and I would have disappeared, mute and in- 
significant as I always have been.” 

“How! Disappeared! I do not understand you, monsieur.” 

“‘ Sire, in a word,” said the officer, ‘I am come to ask for my discharge 
from your mayjesty’s service “ 

The king made a movement of surprise, but the officer remained as 
motionless as a Statue, 

“Your discharge—yours, monsieur ? and for how long a time, | pray °” 

* Why, for ever, sire.” 

‘“‘ What, you are desirous of quitting my service, monsieur f” said Louis, 
with an expression that revealed something more than surprise. 

“ Sire, I have that regret.” 

“Impossible !” 

“It is so, however, sire. I am getting old; I have worn harness now 
thirty-five years ; my peor shoulders are tired ; I feel that I must give place 
to the young I don't beleng to this age; I have still one 100t in the old 
one ; it results that everything is strange in my eyes, everything astonishes 
and bewildersme. In short, I have the honour to ask for my discharge of 
your majesty.” 

“¢ Monsieur,” said the king looking at the officer, who wore his uniform 
with an ease that would have created envy in a young man, “ you are 
stronger and more vigorous than I am.” 

“Oh !” replied the officer, with an air of false modesty, “ your majesty 
says so because I still have a good eye and a tolerably firm foot—because 
I can still ride a horse, and my moustache is black; but, sire, vanity of 
vanities all that—illusions all that—appearance, smoke, sire! I have 
still a young air, it is true, but I am old at bottom ; and within six months 
I feel certain I shall be broken down, gouty, impotent. Therefore, then, 
sire ? ois 

“Monsieur,” interrupted the king, “ remember your words of yesterday. 
You said to me in this very place where you now are, that you were en- 
dowed with the best health of any man in France ; that fatigue was un- 
known to you! that you cared not for passing whole days and nights at 
your post. Did you tell me that, monsieur, or not? Recall your memory, 
monsieur.” 

_ The officer breathed a sigh. “ Sire,” said he, “old age is boastful ; and 
it is pardonable for old men to make the eulogy of those for whom others 
no longer make it. It is very possible I said that ; but the fact is, sire, I 
am very much fatigued, and request permission to retire.” 

‘ Monsieur,” said the king, advancing towards the officer with a gesture 
at once full of address and majesty, “you are not assigning me the true 


PROOFS OF MEMORY. 63 


reason. You wish to quit my service, it may be true, but you disguise 
from me the motive for your retreat.” 

“ Sire, believe that——” 

“1 believe what I see, monsieur; I see a vigorous, energetic man, full 
of presence of mind, the best soldier in France, perhaps ; and this person- 
age cannot persuade me the least in the world that you stand in need of 
rest.” 

“Ah! sire,” said the lieutenant, with bitterness, “what praises! In- 
deed, your majesty confounds me! Energetic, vigorous, brave, intelli- 
gent, the best soldier in the army! But, sire, your majesty exaggerates 
my small portion of merit to such a point, that, however good an opinion 
I may have of myself, I do not recognise myself ; in truth ido not. If I 
were vain enough to believe only half of your majesty’s words, I should 
consider myself as a valuable, indispensable man. I should say thata 
servant possessed of such brilliant qualities was a treasure beyond all 
price. Now, sire, I have been all my life—I feel bound to say it—except 
at the present time, appreciated, in my opinion, much beneath my value. 
I therefore repeat, your majesty exaggerates.” 

The king knitted his brow, for he saw a bitter raillery beneath the words 
of the officer. ‘Come, monsieur,’ said he, “let us meet the question 
frankly, Are you dissatisfied with my service, say? No evasions ; speak 
boldly, frankly—I command you to do so” 

The officer, who had been twisting his hat about in his hands, with an 
embarrassed air, for several minutes, :aised his head at these words. 
“Oh! sire, said he, “that puts me a little more at my ease. To a ques- 
tion put so frankly, I will reply frankly. To tell the truth is a good thing, 
as much from the pleasure one feels in relieving one’s heart, as on account 
of the rarity of the fact. I will speak the truth, then, to my king, at the 
same time imploring him to excuse the frankness of an old soldier.” 

Louis looked at his officer with anxious inquietude, which was mani- 
fested by agitation of his gesture. ‘Well, then, speak,” said he, “for I 
am impatient to hear the truths you have to tell me.” 

The officer threw his hat upon a table, and his countenance, always 
so intelligent and martial, assumed, all at once, a strange character of 
grandeur and solemnity. “ Sire,’ said he, “I quit the king’s service because 
I am dissatisfied The valet, in these times, can approach his master as 
respectfully as I do, can give him an account of his labour, bring back his 
tools, render the funds that have been intrusted to him, and say, ‘ Master, 
my day's work is done ; pay me, if you please, and let us part.’” 

“Monsieur! monsieur !” exclaimed the king, purple with rage. 

“Ah! sire,” replied the officer, bending his knee for a moment, “ never 
was servant more respectful than I am before your majesty; only you 
commanded me to tell the truth. Now I have begun to tell it, it must 
come out, even if you command me to hold my tongue.” 

There was so much resolution expressed in the deep-sunk muscles of 
the officer’s countenance, that Louis XIV. had no occasion to tell him to 
continue; he continued, then, whilst the king looked at him with a 
curiosity mingled with admiration. 

“Sire, I have, as I have said, now served the house of France thirty-five 
years ; few people have worn out so many swords in that service as | 
have, and the swords I speak of were good swords, too, sire. I was a boy, 
ignorant of everything except courage, when the king your father divined 
that there was a man in me. I was a man, sire, when the Cardinal de 
Richelieu, who was a judge of manhood, divined an enemy in me. Sire, 


64 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGEL ONE. 

the history of that enmity between the ant and the lion may be read, from 
the first to the last line, in the secret archives of your family. If ever you 
feel an inclination to view it, do it, sire; the history is worth the trouble— 
itis | who tell youso. You will there read that the lion, fatigued, harassed, 
out of breath, at length cried for quarter, and the justice must be rendered 


him to say, that he gave as much as he required. Oh! those were glorious _ 


times, sire, strewed over with battles like one of Tassos or Ariosto’s epo- 
pees! The wonders of those times, to which the people of ours would re- 
fuse belief, were every-day occurrences. For five years together, 1 was a 
hero every day; at least, so | was told by personages of merit; and that is 
a long period for heroism, trust me, sire, is a period of five years. Never- 
theless, I have faith in what these people told me, for they were good 
judges. They were named M. de Richelieu, M. de Buckingham, M. de 
Beaufort, M. de Retz, a rough genius himself in street warfare. In short, 
the king, Louis XIII., and even the queen, your august mother, who one 
day condescended to say, ‘ Thanh you.’ 1 don’t know what service | had 
had the good fortune to render her, Pardon me, sire, for speaking so 
boldly ; but what I relate to you, as I have already had the honour to tell 
your majesty, is history.” 

The king bit his lips, and threw himself violently into his fauzeuz?. 

“I appear importunate to your majesty,” said the lieutenant. “Eh! 
sire, that is the fate of truth ; she is a stern companion ; she bristles all 
over with steel; she wounds those she attacks, and sometimes him who 
speaks her.” 

“ No, monsieur,” replied the king ; “I bade vou speak—speak then.” 

“ After the service of the king and the cardinal, came the service of the 
regency, sire ; I fought pretty well in the Fronde—much less though than 
the first time. The men began to diminish in stature. I have, neverthe- 
less, led your majesty’s musketeers on some perilous occasions, which stand 
upon the orders of the day of the company. Mine was a beautiful lot then! 
I was the favourite of M. de Mazarin. Lieutenant here! lieutenant there! 
lieutenant to the right! lieutenant to the left! There was not a buffet 
dealt in France, of which your humble servant was not charged with the 
dealing ; but they soon became not contented with France; monsieur le 
cardinal, he sent me to England on Cromwell’s account ; another gentle- 
man who was not over gentle, I assure you, sire. I had the honour to 
know him, and I was well able to appreciate him. A great deal was pro- 
mised me onaccount of that mission. So, as I did in it quite contrary to 
all I had been bidden to do, I was generously paid, for I was at length 
appointed captain of the musketeers; that is to say, to the post most 
envied at court, which takes the fas over the maréchals of France, and 
with justice ; for when the captain of the musketeers is named, the flower 
and king of the brave is named.” 

“Captain, monsieur !” interrupted the king; “you make a mistake. 
Lieutenant, you mean to say.’ 

“Not at all, sire—I make no mistake ; your majesty may rely upon me 


in that respect. Monsieur le cardinal gave me the commission himself.” 
Ewvell” 


“But M. de Mazarin, as you know better than anybody, does not often 


give, and sometimes takes back what he has given ; he took it back again 
as soon as peace was made and he was no longer in want of me. Certes, 
I was not worthy to replace M. de Tréville, of illustrious memory ; but 
they had promised me, and they had given me; they ought to have 
stopped there,” 


PROOFS OF MEMORY. pag 61 


“Ts that \ dat dissatisfies you, monsieur? Well, I will make inquiries. 
-I love justic /; and your claim, though made in military fashion, does not 
displease me.” 

“Oh, sire:!” said the officer, ‘“‘ your majesty has ill understood me ; I no 
longer claiyn anything now.” 

“Excess of delicacy, monsieur; but I will keep my eye upon your 
affairs, arid hereafter——” 

és Oh, sire ! what a word !—hereafter! Thirty years have I lived upon 
that prvmising word, which has been pronounced by so many great per- 
sanages, and which your mouth has, in its turn, just pronounced. Here- 
after! that is how 1 have received a score of wounds, and how I have 
reached fifty-four years of age, without ever having had a louis in my 
purse, and without ever having met with a protector in my road—I, who 
have protected so many people! So I change my formula, sire ; and when 
any one says to me ‘ Hereafter, I reply ‘ Vow.’ It is repose I solicit, sire. 
That may be easily granted me. That will cost nobody anything.” 

“‘T did not look for this language, monsieur, particularly from aman who 
has always lived among the great. You forget you are speaking to the 
king, to a gentleman who is, I suppose, of as good a house as yourself ; 
and when / say hereafter, I mean a certainty.” 

“I do not at all doubt it, sire ; but this is the end of theterrible truth I 
had totell you. If I were to see upon that table a saréchal’s baton, the 
sword of constable, the crown of Poland, instead of hereafter, I swear to 
you, sire, that I should still say Now / Oh, excuse me, sire! I am from 
the country of your grandfather, Henry IV. I do not speak often; but 
when I do speak, I speak all.” 

“The future of my reign has little temptation for you, monsieur, it 
appears,” said Louis, haughtily. 

“Forgetfulness, forgetfulness everywhere !” cried the officer, with a 
noble air; “the master has forgotten the servant, so that the servant is 
reduced to forget his master. I live in unfortunate times, sire. I see 
youth full of discouragement and fear, I see it timid and despoiled, when 
it ought to be rich and powerful. I yesterday evening, for example, open 
the door to a king of England, whose father, humble as I am, I was near 
saving, if God had not been against me—God, who inspired his elect, 
Cromwell! I open, I said, the door, that is to say, of the palace of one 
brother to another brother, and I see—stop, sire, that presses upon my 
heart !—I see the minister of that king drive away the proscribed prince, 
and humiliate his master by condemning to want another king, his equal. 
Then I see my prince, who is young, handsome, and brave, who has 
courage in his heart and lightning in his eye,—I see him tremble before 
a priest, who laughs at him behind the curtains of his alcove, where he 
digests all the gold of France, which he afterwards stuffs into secret coffers. 
Yes,—I understand your looks, sire. I am bold to madness ; but what is 
to be said? I aman old man, and I tell you here, sire, to you, my king, 
things which I would cram down the throat of any one who should dare 
to pronounce them before me. You have commanded me to pour out the 
bottom of my heart before you, sire, and I cast at the feet of your majesty 
the bile which I have been collecting during thirty years, as I would pour 
out all my blood, if your majesty commanded me to do so.” 

The king, without speaking a word, wiped the drops of cold and abun- 
dant sweat which trickled from his temples. The moment of silence 
which followed this vehement outbreak, represented for him who had 
spoken, and for him who had listened, ages of suffering. 


5 


66 | THE VICOMTE DE BRAGEL ONNE) 


“Monsieur,” said the king at length, “ you have pronou\, .ed the word 
forgetfulness. I have heard nothing but that word ; I will re, ly then, to it 
alone. Others have perhaps been able to forget, but I have not, and the 
proof is, that I remember that one day of riot, that one day if which the 
furious people, furious and roaring as the sea, invaded the r yal palace 5 
that one day when I feigned to sleep in my bed, one man aline, naked 
sword in hand, concealed behind my bolster, watched over my ‘ife, ready 
to risk his own for me, as he had before risked it twenty times for\ the lives 
of my family. Was not the gentleman, whose name I then deinanded, 
called M. d’Artagnan? say, monsieur.” 

“Your majesty has a good memory,” replied the officer, coldly. 

*‘ You see, then,” continued the king, “if I have such remembrances of 
ray childhood, what an amount I may gather in the age of reason.” 

“ Your majesty has been richly endowed by God,” said the officer, in the 
same tone. 

“Come, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” continued Louis, with feverish agita- 
tion, “ ought you not to be as patient as 1am? Ought you not to do as I 
do? Come!” 

“And what do you do, sire °” “¢ T wait.” 

“Your majesty may do so, because you are young ; but I, sire, have 
not time to wait ; old age is at my door, and death is behind it, looking 
into the very depths of my house. Your majesty is beginning life, its 
future is full of hope and fortune ; but I, sire, 1 am at the other side of 
the horizon, and we are so far from each other, that I should never have 
time to wait till your majesty came up to me.” 

Louis made another turn in his apartment, still wiping the sweat from 
his brow, in a manner that would have terrified his physicians, if his 
physicians had witnessed the state his majesty was in. 

‘“‘Tt is very well, monsieur,” said Louis XIV., ina sharp voice ; “ you are 
desirous of having your discharge, and you shall have it. You offer me your 
resignation of the rank of lieutenant of the musketeers ?” 

“1 deposit it humbly at your majesty’s feet, sire.” 

‘“‘ That is sufficient. I will order your pension.” 

“T shall have a thousand obligations to your majesty.” 

“‘ Monsieur,” said the king, with a violent effort, “I think you are losing 
a good master.” 

“And I am sure of it, sire.” 

“Shall you ever find such another ?” 2 

“Oh, sire ! I know that your majesty is alone in the world; therefore 
will I never again take service with any king upon earth, and will never 
again have other master than myself.” 

“You say so?”’——“] swear so, your majesty.” 

“T shall remember that word, monsieur.”—_D’Artagnan bowed. 

“And you know I have a good memory ?” said the king. 

“Yes, sire ; and yet I should desire that that memory should fail your 
majesty in this instance, in order that you might forget all the miseries I 
have been forced to spread before: your eyes. Your majesty is so much 
above the poor and the mean, that I hope . 

“My majesty, monsieur, will act like the sun, which looks upon all, 
great and small, rich and poor, giving lustre to some, warmth to others, 


< 


life to all. Adieu, Monsieur d’Artagnan—adieu ; you are free.” 

And the king, with a hoarse sob, which was lost in his throat, passed. 
quickly into the next chamber. D’Artagnan took up his hat from the table 
upon which he had thrown it, and went out. 


THE PROSCRIBED, 67 


Coit A Les rer assye 
THE PROSCRIBED. 


D'Artacn# had not reached the bottom of the staircase, when the king 


66 * 7 > - : ; ” : 
eoiieeri ns gentleman. I have a cammission to give you, monsieur,” said 


he. 


“1 am/t your majesty’s commands.” 

& Woip then.” And the young king began to write the following letter, 
which ot him more than one sigh, although, at the same time, something 
jt. . meling of triumph glittered in his eyes : 


‘** MONSIEUR LE CARDINAL,—Thanks to your good counsels, and, above 
all, thanks to your firmness, I have succeeded in overcoming a weakness 
unworthy ofa king You have too ably arranged my destiny to allow 
gratitude not to stop me at the moment I was about to destroy your work. 
I felt I was wrong to wish to make my life deviate from the course you 
had marked out for it Certes, it would have been a misfortune to France 
and my family if a misunderstanding had taken place between me and 
my minister. This, however, would certainly have happened if I had 
made your niece my wife. I am perfectly aware of this, and will hence- 
forth oppose nothing to the accomplishment of my destiny. I am pre- 
pared, then, to marry the infanta, Maria Theresa. You may at once open 
the conference.— Your affectionate “ LOUIS.” 


The king, after reperusing the letter, sealed it himself. ‘“ This letter for 
monsieur le cardinal,” said he. 

The gentleman took it. At Mazarin’s door he found Bernouin waiting 
with anxiety. 

“Well?” asked the minister’s valet-de-chambre. 

“Monsieur,” said the gentleman, “here is a letter for his eminence.” 

“A letter! Ah! we expected one, after the little journey of the morn- 
ing.” 

“Oh ! you know then that his majesty ——” 
“In quality of first minister, it belongs to the duties of our charge to 
know everything. And his majesty prays and implores, I presume.” 

“T don't know, but he sighed frequently whilst he was writing.” 

“Yes, yes, yes; we understand all that: people sigh sometimes from 
happiness as well as from grief, monsieur.” 

“ And yet the king did not look very happy when he returned, mon- 
sieur.” 

“You did not see clearly. Besides, you only saw his majesty on his re- 
turn, for he was only accompanied by the lieutenant of the guards. But 
I had his eminence’s telescope ; I looked through it when he was tired, 
and I am sure they both wept.” 

“Well! was it for happiness they wept ?” 

“No, but for love, and they vowed to each other a thousand tender- 
nesses, which the king asks no better than to keep. Now this letter is a 
commencement of the execution.” 

“And what does his eminence think of this love, which is, by-the-by, 
no secret to anybody ?” 

Bernouin took the gentleman by the arm, and whilst ascending the 
staircase,—“ In confidence,” said he, in a low voice, “his eminence looks 
for success in the affair. I know very well we shall have war with Spain ; 
but, bah ! war will pleasé the nobles. Monsieur le cardinal, besides, can 


5—2 


68 THE VICOMLE DE BRAGELONNE 

Th : 
endow his niece royally, nay, more than royally. ere: 2 
festivities, and Aree orks eos will be delighted.” ll be money, 

“Well, for my part,” replied the gentleman, shaking his 
pears to me that this letter is very light to contain all that.’ 

“My friend,” replied Bernouin, “I am certain of what | 
d’Artagnan related all that passed to me.” 

“ Ay, ay! and what did he tell you? Let us hear.” 

““T accosted him by asking him, on the part of the card, . 

: | : : fe at al, if there 
were any news, without discovering my designs, observe, for - ‘A 
nan isa cunning hand. ‘My dear Monsieur Bernouin,’ he Tied rlag- 
king is madly in love with Mademoiselle de Mancini, that is ali 7? the 
tell you.’ And then I asked him: ‘do you think, to such a deg. he to 
will urge him to act contrary to the designs of his eminence” ‘Ah ! adn‘t 
interrogate me,’ said he ; ‘I think the king capable of anything : he has a 
head of iron, and what he wills he wills in earnest. If he takes it into his 
head to marry Mademoiselle de Mancini, he will marry her, depend upon 
it.’ And thereupon he left me and went straight to the stables, took a 
horse, saddled it himself, jumped upon its back, and set off as if the devil 
were at his heels.” 

‘So that you believe, then 2 

‘“‘T believe that monsieur the lieutenant of the guards knew more than 
he was willing to say.” 

“In your opinion, then, M. d’Artagnan——” 

“Ts gone, according to all probability, after the exiles, to carry out all 
that can facilitate the success of the king’s love.” 

Chatting thus, the two confidants arrived at the door of his eminence’s 
apartment. His eminence’s gout had left him, he was walking about his 
chamber in a state of great anxiety, listening to doors and looking out of 
windows. Bernouin entered, followed by the gentleman, who had orders 
from the king to place the letter in the hands of the cardinal himself. 
Mazarin took the letter, but before opening it, he got up a ready smile, a 
smile of circumstance, able to throw a veil over emotions of whatever sort 
they might be. So prepared, whatever was the impression received from the 
letter, no reflection of that impression was allowed to transpire upon his 
countenance. 

“Well!” said he, when he had read and re-read the letter, “ exceedingly 
well, monsieur. Inform the king that I thank him for his obedience to 
the wishes of the queen-mother, and that I will set about doing everything 
for the accomplishment of his will.” 

The gentleman left the room. The door had scarcely closed before the 
cardinal, who had no mask for Bernouin, took off that with which he 
had so recently covered his face, and with a most dismal expression,— 
“Call M. de Brienne,” said he. Five minutes afterwards, the secretary 
entered. 

‘‘ Monsieur,” said Mazarin, “I have just rendered a great service to the 
monarchy, the greatest I have ever renderedit. You will carry this letter, 
which proves it, to her majesty the queen-mother, and when she shall have 
returned it to you, you will lodge it in portfolio B, which is filled with docu- 
ments and’ papers felative to my ministry.” | 

Brienne went as desired, and, as the letter was unsealed, did not fail to 
read it on his way. There is likewise no doubt that Bernouin, who was 
on good terms with everybody, approached so near to the secretary as to 
be able to read the letter over his shoulder ; so that the news spread with 
such activity through the castle, that Mazarin might have feared it would 


head, as it ap- 


tell you. M, 


THE PROSCRIBED. 69 


reach the ears of the queen-mother before M. de Brienne could convey 
Louis XI V.’s letter to her. A moment after, orders were given for depar- 
ture, and M. de Condé having been to pay his respects to the king, at his 
pretended rising, inscribed the city of Poitiers upon his tablets, as the 
place of sojourn and repose for their majesties. Thus in a few instants 
was unravelled an intrigue which had covertly occupied all the diplomacies 
of Europe. It had nothing, however, very clear as a result, but to makea 
poor lieutenant of musketeers lose his commission and his fortune. It is 
true that in exchange he gaincd his liberty. We shall soon know how M. 
d’Artagnan profited by this. For the moment, if the reader will permit us, 
we will return to the hostelry of es Medicz, of which one of the sindows 
opened at the very moment the orders were given for the departure of the 
king. . 

The window that opened was that of one of the hambers of Charles II. 
The unfortunate prince had passed the night in bitter reflections, his head 
supported by his hands, and his elbows on the tab e, whilst Parry, infirm 
and old, fatigued in body and in mind, ha fallen asleep in a corner. A 
singular fortune was that of this faithful servant, wh» saw recommencing 
for the second generation, the fearful series of misfortunes which had 
weighed so heavily on the first. When Charles IJ. had well thought over 
the fresh defeat he had experienced, when he perfectly comprehended the 
complete isolation into which he had just fallen, on seeing his fresh hope 
left behind him, he was seized as with a vertigo, and sank back in the 
large fauteuzl in which he was seated. Then God took pity on the un- 
happy prince, and sent to console him sleep, the innocent brother of 
death. He did not wake till half-past six, that is to say, till the sun shone 
brightly into his chamber, and Parry, motionless with the fear of waking 
him, was observing with profound grief the eyes of the young man already 
red with wakefulness, and his cheeks pale with suff ring and privations. 

At length the noise of some heavy carts descending towards the Loire 
awakened Charles. He arose, looked around him like a man who has forgot- 
ten everything, perceived Parry, shvok him by the hand, and commanded 
him to settle the reckoning with Master Cropole. Master Cropole, being 
called upon to settle his account with Parry, acquitted himself, it must be 
allowed, like an honest man ; he only made his customary remark, that 
the two travellers had eaten nothing, which had the double disadvantage 
of being humiliating for his kitchen, and of forcing him to ask payment for 
a repast not consumed, but not the less lost. Parry had nothing to say to 
the contrary, and paid. 

“IT hope,” said the king, “it has not been the same with the horses. I 
don’t see that they have eaten at your expense, and it would be a misfor- 
tune for travellers like us, who have a long journey to make, to have our 
horses fail us.” 

But Cropole, at this doubt, assumed his majestic air, and replied that 
the manger of /es Medic¢ was not less hospitable than its refectory. 

The king mounted his horse ; his old servant did the same, and both 
set out towards Paris, without meeting a single person on their road, in 
the streets or the faubourgs of the city. For the prince the blow was more 
severe, from being a fresh exile. The unfortunate cling to the smallest 
hopes, as the happy do to the greatest good ; and when they are obliged 
to quit the place where that hope has soothed their hearts, they experience 
the mortal regret which the banished man feels when he places his foot 
upon the vessel which is to bear him into exile. It appears that the heart 
already wounded so many times suffers from the least scratch ; it appears 


70 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


that it considers as a good the momentary absence of evil, which is nothing 
but the absence of pain ; and that God, into the most terrible misfortunes, 
has thrown hope as the drop of water which the rich bad man in hell en. 
treated of Lazarus. 

For one instant even the hope of Charles II. had been more than a 
fugitive joy ;—that was when he found himself so kindly welcomed by his 
brother king ; then it had taken a form that had become a reality; then, 
all at once, the refusal of Mazarin had reduced the factitious reality to the 
state of a dream. This promise of Louis XIV., so soon resumed, had been 
nothing but a mockery: a mockery like his crown—lke his sceptre— 
like his friends—like all that had surrounded his royal childhood, and 
which had abandoned his proscribed youth. Mockery! everything was a 
mockery for Charles II. except the cold, black repose promised by death. 

Such were the ideas of the unfortunate prince while sitting listlessly 
upon his horse, to which he abandoned the reins: he rode slowly along 
beneath the warm sun of May, in which the sombre misanthropy of the 
exile perceived a last insult to his grief. 


CHAPTER. XVI. 
* REMEMBER !” 


A HORSEMAN who passed rapidly along the road leading towards Blois, 
which he had left nearly halfan hour before, crossed the two travellers, 
and, though apparently in haste, raised his hat as he passed them. The 
king scarcely observed this young man, who was about twenty-five years 
of age. Turning round several times, he made signals of kindness to a 
man standing before the gate of a handsome white-and-red house ; that is 
to say, built of brick and stone, with a slated roof, situated on the left hand 
of the road the prince was travelling. 

This man, old, tall, and thin, with white hair,—we speak of him stand- 
ing by the gate ;—this man replied to the farewell signals of the young one 
by signs of parting as tender as could have been made bya father. The 
young man disappeared at the first turning of the road, bordered by. fine 
trees, and the old man was preparing to return to the house, when the two 
travellers, arriving in front of the gate, attracted his attention. 

The king, we have said, was riding with his head cast down, his arms 
inert, leaving his horse to go what pace he liked, whilst Parry behind him, 
the better to imbibe the genial influence of the sun, had taken off his hat, 
and was looking about to the right and left. His eyes encountered those 
of the old man leaning against the gate, and who, as if struck by some 
strange spectacle, uttered an exclamation, and made one step towards the 
two travellers. From Parry his eyes immediately turned towards the 
king, upon whom they stopped for an instant, This examination, however 
rapid, was reflected instantly ina visiblemannerupon the features of the tall old 
man, For scarcely had he recognised the younger of the travellers—and 
we say recognised, for nothing but a perfect recognition could have ex- 
plained such an act—scarcely, we say, had he recognized the younger of 
the two travellers, than he clapped his hands together, with respectful sur- 
prise, and, raising his hat from his head, bowed so profoundly that it might 
have been said he was kneeling. This demonstration, however absent, or 
rather, however absorbed was the king in his reflections, attracted his at- 
tention instantly ; and checking his horse, and turning towards Parry, he 


“ REMEMBER |” mY 


exclaimed, ‘‘ Good God, Parry, who is that man who salutes me in such a 
marked manner? can he know me, think you ?” 

Parry, much agitated and very pale, had already turned his horse towards 
the gate. ‘Ah, sire!” said he, stopping suddenly at five or six paces’ dis- 
tance from the still bending old man ; “sire, I am seized with astonish- 
ment, for I think I recognise that brave man. Yes, it must be he! Will 
your majesty permit me to speak to him ?” 

* Certainly.” 

“Can it be you, Monsieur Grimaud ?” asked Parry. 

“Yes, it is,” replied the tall old man, looking up without abating in his 
respectful attitude. 

“Sire,” then said Parry, ‘I was not deceived, ~This good man is the 
servant of the Comte de la Fére, and the Comte de la Fére, if you remem- 
ber, is the worthy gentleman of whom I have so often spoken to your 
majesty that the remembrance of him must remain, net only in your mind, 
but in your heart.” 

‘“‘ He who was present at the last moments of my father ?” asked Charles, 
evidently affected at the remembrance.————“ The same, sire.” 

“Alas ! said Charles; and then addressing Grimaud, whose pene- 
trating and intelligent eyes seemed to search and divine his thoughts,— 
“My friend,” said he, “ does your master, Monsieur le Comte de la Fére, 
live in this neighbourhood P” 

“There,” replied Grimaud, pointing with his outstretched arm to the 
white-and-red house behind the gate. 

‘And is Monsieur le Comte de la Fére at home at present ?” 

** At the back, under the chestnut-trees.” 

“ Parry,” said the king, “Iwill not miss this opportunity, so precious 
for me, to thank the gentleman to whom our house 1s indebted for such a 
noble example of devotedness and generosity. Hold my horse, my friend, 
if you please.” And, throwing the bridle to Grimaud, the king entered the 
abode of Athos, quite alone, as one equal enters the dwelling of another. 
Charles had been informed by the concise explanation of Grimaud,—“ At 
the back, under the chestnut-trees ;’ he left, therefore, the house on the 
left, and went straight down the path indicated. The thing was easy ; the 
tops of those noble trees, already covéred with leaves and flowers, rose 
above all the rest. On arriving under the lozenges, by turns Juminous and 
dark, which chequered the ground of this path according as the trees were 
more or less in leaf, the young prince perceived a gentleman walking with 
his arms behind him, apparently plunged in a profound reverie. Without 
doubt he had often had this gentleman described to him, for, without. hesi- 
tating, Charles II. walked straight up to him. At the sound of his foot- 
steps, the Comte de la Fére raised his head, and seeing an unknown of a 
noble and elegant carriage coming towards him, he raised his hat and 
waited. At some paces from him, Charles IJ. likewise took off his hat. 
Then, as if in reply to the comte’s mute interrogation,— 

“Monsieur le comte,” said he, “I come to discharge a duty towards you. 
I have, for a long time, had the expression of a profound gratitude to bring 
you. Iam Charles II., son of Charles Stuart, who reigned in England, 
and died on the scaffold.” 

On hearing this illustrious name, Athos felt a kind of shudder creep 
through his veins, but at the sight of the young prince standing uncovered 
before him and stretching out his hand towards him, two tears, for an in- 
stant, dimmed his brilliant eyes. He bent respectfully, but the prince took 
him by the hand. 


72 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“See how unfortunate I am, monsieur le comte; it is only due to 
chance that I have met with you. Alas! I ought to have people around 
me whom I love and honour, whereas I am reduced to preserve their ser- 
vices in my heart, and their names in my memory : so that if your servant 
had not recognized mine, I should have passed by your door as by that of 
a stranger.” 

“It is but too true,” said Athos, replying with his voice to the first part 
of the king's speech, and with a bow to the second ; “it 1s but too true, in- 
deed, that your majesty has seen many evil days.” 

“ And the worst, alas !” replied Charles, “ are perhaps still to come.” 

Sire, levis Nope. 

“ Comte, comte,” continued Charles, shaking his head, “I entertained 
hope till last night, and that of a good Christian, I swear.” 

Athos looked at the king as if to interrogate him. 

“‘Oh, the history is soon related,” said Charles. “‘ Proscribed, despoiled, 
disdained, I resolved, in spite of all my repugnance, to tempt fortune one 
last time. Is it not written above, that, for our family, all good fortune and 
all bad fortune shall eternally come from France? You know something 
of that, monsieur,—you, who are one of the Frenchmen whom my unfor- 
tunate father found at the foot of his scaffold, on the day of his death, after 
having found them at his right hand on the day of battle.” 

“Sire,” said Athos, modestly, “I was not alone. I and my companions 
did, under the circumstances, our duty as gentlemen, and that was all. 
Your majesty was about to do me the honourto relate——” 

“That is true. I had the protection,—pardon my hesitation, comte, but, 
for a Stuart, you, who understand everything, you will comprehend that 
the word is hard to pronounce ;—I had, I say, the protection of my cousin 
the stadtholder of Holland ; but without the intervention, or at least with- 
out the authorisation of France, the stadtholder would not take the initia- 
tive. I came, then, to ask this authorisation of the king of France, who- 
has refused me.” 

“The king has refused you, sire !” 

“Oh, not he ; all justice must be rendered to my young brother Louis ; 
but Monsieur de Mazarin ——” 

Athos bit his lips. 


“You perhaps think I had a right to expect this refusal?” said the king, 
who had remarked the movement. 


“That was, in truth, my thought, sire,” replied Athos, respectfully ; “1 
know that Italian of old.” ° 

“Then I determined to come to the test, and know at once the last word 
of my destiny. I told my brother Louis, that, not to compromise either 
France or Holland, I would tempt fertune myself in person, as I had 
already done, with two hundred gentlemen, if he would give them to me ; 
and a million, if he would lend it me.” 

“Well, sire 2” : 

“Well, monsieur, I am suffering at this moment something strange, and 
that is, the satisfaction of despair. There is in certain souls,—and I have 
just discovered that mine is of the number,—a real satisfaction in that 
assurance : that allis lost, and the time is come to yield.” 

“Oh, I hope,” said Athos, “that your majesty is not come to that ex- 
tremity.” 

“To say so, monsieur le comte, to endeavour to revive hope in my heart, 
you must have ill understood what I have just told you. Icame to Blois to 
ask of my brother Louis the alms of a million, with which I had the hopes of 


“ REMEMBER |” 73 


re-establishing my affairs ; and my brother Louis has refused me. You see, 
then, plainly that all is lost.” 

Will your majesty permit me to express a contrary opinion ?” 

“How is that, comte? Do you take me for a mind vulgar to sucha 
degree as not to know how to confront my position ?” 

‘Sire, | have always seen that it was in desperate positions that suddenly 
the great turns of fortune have taken place.” 

“Thank you, comte ; it issome comfort to meet with a heart like yours ; 
that is to say, sufficiently trustful in God and in monarchy, never to de- 
spair of a royal fortune, however low it may be fallen. Unfortunately, my 
dear comte, your words are like those remedies they call ‘sovereign,’ and 
which, notwithstanding, being only able to cure curable wounds or diseases, 
fail against death. Thank you for your perseverance in consoling me, 
comte, thanks for your devoted remembrance, but I know what I have to 
trust to,—nothing will save me now. And see, my friend, I was so con- 
vinced, that I was taking the route of exile, with my old Parry; I was re- 
turning to devour my poignant griefs in the little hermitage offered me by 
Holland. ‘There, believe me, comte, all will soon be over, and death will 

-come quickly ; it is called for so often by this body, which the soul gnaws, 
and by this soul, which aspires to heaven.” 

“Your. majesty has a mother, a sister, and brothers ; your majesty is the 
head of the family ; you ought, therefore, to ask a long life of God, instead 
of imploring him for a prompt death. Your majesty is proscribed, a fugi- 
tive, but you have right on your side ; you ought to aspire to combats, 
dangers, business, and not to the repose of the heavens.” 

“Comte,” said Charles II., with a smile of indescribable sadness, “ have 
you ever heard of a king who re-conquered his kingdom with one servant 
of the age of Parry, and with three hundred crowns which that servant 
carries in his purse ?” 

“No, sire; but I have heard—and that more than once—that a de- 
throned king has recovered his kingdom with a firm will, perseverance, 
some friends, and a million skilfully employed.” 

“But you cannot have understood me. The million I asked of my 
brother Louis, he has refused me.” 

“Sire,” said Athos, “will your majesty grant me a few minutes, and 
listen attentively to what remains for me to say to you ?” 

Charles II. looked earnestly at Athos. “ Willingly, monsieur,” said he. 

“Then I will show your majesty the way,” resumed the comte, direct- 
ing his steps towards the house. He then conducted the king to his 
closet, and begged him to be seated. “Sire,” said he, “your majesty 
just now told me that, in the present state of England, a million would 
suffice for the recovery of your kingdom.” 

“To attempt it at least, monsieur ; and to die as a king if I should not 
succeed.” 

“Well, then, sire, let your majesty, according to the promise you have 
made me, have the goodness to listen to what I have to say.” Charles 
made an affirmative sign with his head. Athos walked straight up to the 
door, the bolts of which he drew, after having looked if anybody was 
near, and then returned. “Sire,” said he, “your majesty has kindly re- 
membered that I lent assistance to the very noble and very unfortunate 
Charles I., when his executioners conducted him from St. James’s to 
Whitehall.” 

“Yes, certainly I do remember it, and always shall remember it.” 

* Sire, it is a dismal history for a son to listen to, and who no doubt has ° 


V4 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


had it related to him many times ; and yet I ought to repeat it to your 
majesty without omitting one detail.” 

‘* Speak on, monsieur.” 

“ When the king your father ascended the scaffold, or rather when he 
passed from his chamber to the scaffold, even with his window, every- 
thing was prepared for his escape. The executioner was got out of the 
way ; a hole contrived under the floor of his apartment; I myself was 
beneath the funeral vault, which I heard all at once creak beneath his 
feet.” 

** Parry has related to me all these terrible details, monsieur.” 

Athos bowed, and resumed. ‘ But here is something he has not related 
to you, sire, for what follows passed between God, your father, and myself; 
and never has the revelation of it been made even to my dearest 
friends. ‘Go a little further off, said the august patient to the executioner ; 
‘it is but for an instant, and I know that I belong to you ; but remem- 
ber not to strike till I give the signal. I wish to offer up my prayers in 
freedom.’ ” 

‘¢ Pardon me,” said Charles II., turning very pale, ‘‘ but you, comte, who 
know so many details of this melancholy event,—details which, as you said - 
just now, have never been revealed to any one,—do you know the name of 
that infernal executioner, of that base wretch who concealed his face that 
he might assassinate a king with impunity ?” 

Athos became slightly pale. ‘His name?” said he; “yes I know it, 
but cannot tell it.” 

“And what is become of him, for nobody in England knows his 
destiny ?” 

“He is dead.” 

“But he did not die in his bed; he did not die a calm and peaceful 
death ; he did not die the death of the good ?” 

“ He died a violent death, in a terrible night, rendered so by the passions 
of man and a tempest from God. His body, pierced by a poniard, sank 
to the depths of the ocean. God pardon his murderer !” 

‘Proceed, then,” said Charles II., seeing that the comte was unwilling 
to say more. 

“The king of England, after having, as I have said, spoken thus to the 
masked executioner, added :—‘ Observe, you will not strike till I shall 
stretch out my arms, saying—REMEMBER !”' 

“TI was aware,” said Charles, in an agitated voice, “that that was the 
bast word pronounced by my unfortunate father. But with what aim? for 
whom ! 

‘For the French gentleman placed beneath his scaffold.” 

“For you, then, monsieus *” 

“Yes, sire ; and every one ot the words which he spoke to me, through 
the planks of the scaffold covered witha black cloth, still sounds in my 
ears. The king knelt down on one knee: ‘Comte de la Fére,’ said ke, 
‘are you there?’ ‘Yes, sire,’ replied 1 Then the king stooped towards 
the boards.’ , 

Charles II., also, palpitating with interest, burning with grief, stooped 
towards Athos, to catch, one by one, every word that escaped from him. 
His head touched that of the comte. 

“ Then,” continued Athos, “the king stooped. ‘ Comte de la Fére,’ said 
he, “it was not possible for me to be saved by you: it was not to be. Now, 
even though I commit a sacrilege, 1 must speak to you. Yes, I have spoken 
to men—yes, I have spoken to God, and I speak to you the last. By sup- 


“ REMEMBER |” 5 


porting a cause which I thought sacred, I have lost the throne of my 
fathers, and diverted the heritage of my children.’ ” 

Charles II. concealed his face in his hands, and a bitter tear glided 
between his white and slender fingers. 

“*T have still a million left,’ continued the king. ‘I buried it in the 
vaults of the castle of Newcastle, a moment before I quitted that city.’” 
Charles raised his head with an expression of such painful joy as would have 
drawn tears from any one acquainted with his misfortunes. 

“A million !’? murmured he. ‘Oh, comte !” 

“You alone know that this money exists : employ it when you think it 
can be of the greatest service to my eldest son. And now, Comte de la 
Fére, bid me adieu ?” 

“*¢ Adieu, adieu, sire !’ cried I.’ 

Charles arose, and went and leant his burning brow against the window. 

“Tt was then,” continued Athos, “the king pronounced the word ‘ RE- 
MEMBER!" addressed to me. You see, sire, that I have remembered.” 

The king could not resist or conceal his emotion. Athos beheld the 
movement of his shoulders, which undulated convulsively ; he heard the 
sobs which burst from his overcharged breast. He was silent himself, 
suffocated by the flood of bitter remembrances he had just poured upon 
that roya! head, Charles II, with a violent effort, left the window, de- 
voured his tears, and came and reseated himself by Athos. “ Sire,” said 
the latter, “I thought till to-day that the time was not yet arrived for the 
employment of that last resource ; but, with my eyes fixed upon England, 
I thought it was approaching. To-morrow I meant to go and inquire in 
what part of the world your majesty was,and then I purposed going to you. 
You come to me, sire ; that is an indication that God is with us.” 

“Monsieur,” said Charles, in a voice choked by emotion, “you are, for 
me, what an angel sent from heaven would be,—you are a preserver, sent 
to me from the tomb of my father by himself; but, believe me, since ten 
years of civil war have passed over my country, striking down men, tear- 
ing up the soil, it is no more probable that gold should remain in the en- 
trails of the earth, than love in the hearts of my subjects.” 

“‘ Sire, the spot in which his majesty buried the million is well known to 
me, and no one, I am sure, has been able to discover it. Besides, is the 
castle of Newcastle quite destroyed? Have they demolished it stone by 
stone, and uprooted the soil to the last tree ?” 

“No, it is still standing ; but at this moment General Monk occupies it, 
and is encamped there. The only spot from which I could look for 
succour, where I possess a single resource, you see, is invaded by my 
enemies.” 

“General Monk, sire, cannot have discovered the treasure I speak of.” 

“Yes, but can I go and deliver myself up to Monk in order to recover 
this treasure? Ah! comte, you see plainly I must yield to destiny, since 
it strikes me to the earth every time I rise. What can I do with Parry as 
my only servant, with Parry, whom Monk has already driven from his 
presence? No, no, no, comte, we must yield to this blow.” 

‘“‘ But what your majesty cannot do, and what Parry can no more attempt, 
do you not believe that I could succeed in ?” 

“ You—you, comte—you would go?” 

“Tf it pleases your majesty,” said Athos, bowing to the king, “ yes, I 
will go, sire.” 

‘** What ! you, who are so happy here, comte ?” 

“T am never happy when I have a duty left to accomplish, and it is an 


76 gfe HE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


imperative duty which the king your father left me to watch over your 


fortunes, and make a royal use of his money. So, if your majesty honouxs 


me with a sign, } will go with you.” 

“ Ah, monsieur !” said the king, forgetting all royal etiquette, and throw- 
ing his arms round the neck of Athos, “you prove to me that there is a 
God in heaven, and that this God sometimes sends messengers to the un- 
fortunate who groan upon the earth.” 

Athos, exceedingly moved by this burst of feeling of the young man, 
thanked him with profound respect, and approached the window. “ Gri- 
maud !” cried he, “ bring out my horses.” __ ; 

“What, now—immediately !” said the king. “Ah, monsieur, you are 
indeed a wonderful man !” 


= 


“Sire,” said Athos, “ I know of nothing more pressing than your majesty’s — 


service. Besides,” added he, smiling, “itis a habit contracted long since, 
inthe service of the queen your aunt, and of the king your father. How is 
it possible for me to lose it at the moment your majesty’s service calls 
fort?” 

“What a man!” murmured the king. 

Then, after a moment’s reflection, —“ But no, comte, I cannot expose you 
to such privations. I have no means of rewarding such services.” ° 

“ Bah !” said Athos, laughing. ‘ Your majesty is joking ; have you not 
a million? Ah! why am I not possessed of the half of suchasum! I 
would already have raised a regiment. But, thank God! I have still a 
few rouleaux of gold and some family diamonds left. Your majesty will, 
I hope, deign to share with a devoted servant.” 

“With a friend—yes, comte, but on condition that, in his turn, that 
friend will share with me hereafter.” 

“Sire,” said Athos, opening a casket, from which he drew both gold and 
jewels ; “ you see, sire, we are too rich. Fortunately, there are four of us, 
in the event of meeting with thieves.” 

Joy made the blood rush to the pale cheeks of Charles I]., as he saw 
Athos’s two horses, led by Grimaud, already booted for the journey, 
advance towards the peristyle. 

“ Blaisois, this letter for the Vicomte de Bragelonne. For everybody 
else, I am gone to Paris. I confide the house to you, Blaisois.” Blaisois 
bowed, shook hands with Grimaud, and shut the gate. 


CHAPTER XViAl. 
IN WHICH ARAMIS IS SOUGHT FOR, AND ONLY BAZIN FOUND. 


Two hours had scarcely passed away after the departure of the master of 
the house, who, in Blaisois’ sight, had taken the road to Paris, when a 
cavalier, mounted on a good pied-horse, stopped before the gate, and witha 
sonorous “folé!” called the horse-boys, who, with the gardeners, had formed 
a circle round Blaisois, the historian-in-ordinary to the household of the 
chateau. This “fold /” doubtless well known to Master Blaisois, made him 
turn his head and exclaim—“ Monsieur d’Artagnan ! run quickly, you chaps, 
and open the gate.” 

A swarm of eight brisk lads flew to the gate, which was opened as if it 
had been made of feathers ; and every one loaded him with attentions, for 
they knew the welcome this friend was accustomed to receive from their 


master ; and for such remarks the eye of the valet may always be depended 
upon, : 


ARAMIS IS SOUGHT FOR. | 77 


“ Ah!’ said M. d’Artagnan, with an agreeable smile, balancing himself 
upon his stirrup to jump to the ground, “ where is my dear comte ?” 

*“ Ah! how unfortunate you are, monsieur !” said Blaisois ; “ and how 
unfortunate will monsieur le comte, our master, think himself when he 
hears of your coming! By bad luck, monsieur le comte left home two 
hours ago.” 

D’Artagnan did not trouble himself about such trifles. “ Very good !” 
saidhe. “ You always speak the best French in the world ; you shall give 
me a lesson in grammar and correct language, whilst I await the return of 
your master.” 

“That is impossible, monsieur,” said Blaisois ; “ you would have to wait 
too long.” 

“Will he not come back to-day, then ?” 

“No, nor to-morrow, nor the day after to-morrow. Monsieur le comte 
is gone a journey.” 

“A journey !” said D’Artagnan, surprised; “that’s a fable, Master 
Blaisois.” 

“Monsieur, it is no more than the truth. Monsieur has done me the 
honour to commit the house to my charge ; and he added, with his voice 
‘so full of authority and kindness—that is all one tome: ‘You will say I 
am gone to Paris.’” 

“Well!” cried D’Artagnan, “since he is gone towards Paris, that is all 
I wanted to know! you should have told me so at first, booby! Heis then 
two hours in advance ?” 

‘““Yes, monsieur.” 

“T shall soon overtake him. Is he alone?” 

** No, monsieur.” 

“ Who is with him, then ?” 

“A gentleman whom I don’t know, an old man, and M. Grimaud.” 

“Such a party cannot travel as fast as I can—I will start.” 

“Will monsieur listen tome an instant?” said Blaisois, laying his hand 
gently on the reins of the horse. 

“Yes, if you don’t favour me with fine speeches, and make haste.” 

“Well, then, monsieur, that word Paris appears to me to be only a 
lure.” 

“ Oh, oh !” said D’Artagnan, seriously, “a lure, eh ?” 

“Yes, monsieur: and monsieur le comte is not going to Paris I will 
swear.” 

“What makes you think so?” 

“This :—M. Grimaud always knows where our master is going ; and he 
had promised me that the first time he went to Paris, he would take a little 
money for me to my wife.” 

“What, have you a wife, then ?” 

“TI had one—she was of this country ; but monsieur thought hera noisy 
scold, and I sent her to Paris: it is sometimes inconvenient, but very 
agreeable at others.” 

“T understand; but go on. You-do not believe the comte is gone to 
Paris ?” ; 

“No, monsieur ; for then M. Grimaud would have broken his word, he 
would have been perjured—and that is impossible.” 

“That is impossible,” tepeated D’Artagnan, quite in a study, because he 
was quite convinced. “ Well, my brave Blaisois, many thanks to you.” 
Blaisois bowed. ; 

“Come, you know I am not curious—I have serious business with your 


78 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


master: Could you not, by a little end of a word—you, who speak so well 
—give me to understand—one syllable only—I will guess the rest.’ 

“Upon my word, monsieur, I cannot. I am quite ignorant where mon- 
sieur le comte is gone to. As to listening at doors, that is contrary to my 
nature ; and besides, it is forb’dden here.’ 

“ My dear lad,” said D’Artagnan, ‘this isa very bad beginning for me. 
Never mind ; you know when monsieur le comte will return, at least ?” 

“ As little, monsieur, as the place of his destination.” 

“ Come, Blaisois, come, search ” 

“ Monsieur doubts my sincerity ? Ah, monsieur, that grieves me sen- 
sibly.” 

“The devil take his gilded tongue !” grumbled D’Artagnan. “A clown 
with a word would be worth a dozen of him. Adieu !” 

‘“‘ Monsieur, I have the honour to present you.my respects.” 

“ Cutstre /? said D Artagnan to himself, “the fellow is insupportable.” 
He gave another look up to the house, turned his horse’s head, and set oft 
like a man who has nothing either annoying or embarrassing in his mind. 
When he was at the end of the wall, and out of sight,—“ Well now, I 
wonder,” said he, breathing quickly, “‘ whether Athos was at home. No ; 
all those idlers, standing with their arms crossed, would have been at work 
if the eye of the master was near. Athos gone a journey ?—that is incom- 
prehensible. Bah! it is all devilish mysterious! And then—no—he is 
not the man I want. I want one of a cunning, patient mind. My busi- 
ness is at Melun, in acertain presbytery I am acquainted with. Forty- 
five leagues—four days and a half! Well, it is fine weather, and I am 
free. Never mind distance !’ 

And he put his horse into a trot, directing his course towards Paris. 
On the fourth day he alighted at Melun, as he had intended. 

D’Artagnan was never accustomed to ask anybody the road, or for any 
common information. For these sorts of details, unless in very serious 
circumstances, he confided in his perspicacity, which was so seldom at 
fault, in his experience of thirty years, and in a great habit of reading the 
physiognomies of houses, as well as thoseof men. At Melun, D’Artagnan 
directly found the presbytery,—a charming house, plastered over red 
brick, with vines climbing along the gutters, and a cross, in sculptured 
stone, surmounting the ridge of the roof. From the ground-floor of this 
house, escaped a noise, or rather a confusion of voices, like the chirping 
of young birds when the brood is just.hatched under the down. One of 
these voices was spelling the alphabet distinctly. A voice, thick, but yet 
pleasant, at the same time scolded the talkers and corrected the faults of 
the reader. D’Artagnan recognised that voice, and, as the window of the 
ground-floor was open, he leant down from his horse under the branches and 
red fibres of the vine, and cried, “ Bazin, my dear Bazin ! good dayto you.” 

A short fat man, with a flat face, a cranium ornamented with a crown of 
grey hairs, cut short, in imitation ofa tonsure, and covered with an old black 
velvet cap, arose as soon as he heard D’Artagnan—we ought not to say 
arose, but dounded up. In fact, Bazin bounded up, drawing with him his 
little low chair, which the children tried to take away, with battles more 
fierce than those of the Greeks endeavouring to recover the body of Pa- 
troclus from the hands of the Trojans. Bazin did more than bound ; he 
let fall both his alphabet and his ferule. “You!” said he ; “you, Monsieur 
d’Artagnan ?” 

“Yes, myself! Where is Aramis—no, M. le Chevalier d’Herblay—no, 
I am still mistaken—Monsieur le Vicaire-Général ?” 


ARAMIS 158 SOUGHT FOR. 70 


ue 


“ Ah! monsieur,’ said Bazin, with dignity, “monseigneur is at his 
diocese.” 

“What did you say ?” said D’Artagnan. 

Bazin repeated the sentence. 

“ Ah, ah! but has Aramis a diocese ?” 

“Yes, monsieur. Why not ?” 

“Is he a bishop, then ?” 

“Why, where can you come from,” said Bazin, rather irreverently, “that 
you don't know that ?” 

“ My dear Bazin, we pagans, we men of the sword, know very well when 
aman is made a colonel, or mestre-de-camp, or miaréchal of France ; but 
if he be made bishop, archbishop, or pope—devil take me, if the news 
reaches us before the three quarters of the earth have had the advantage 
of it !” 

“Hush! hush !” said Bazin, opening his eyes ; “do not spoil these poor 
children, in whom I am endeavouring to inculcate such good principles ” 
In fact, the children had surrounded D’Artagnan, whose horse, long sword, 
spurs, and martial air, they very much admired. But above all, they 
admired his strong voice ; so that, when he uttered his oath, the whole 
school cried out, ‘“‘ The devil take me!” with fearful bursts of laughter, 
shouts, and stamping, as delighted the musketeer, and bewildered the old 
pedagogue. 

“ There !” said he, “hold your tongues, you brats! You are come, M. 
d'Artagnan, and all my good principles fly away. With you, as usual, 
comes disorder. Babel is revived. Ah! good Lord! Ah! the wild little 
wretches!” And the worthy Bazin distributed right and left blows which 
redoubled the cries of his scholars by making them change the nature of 
them. 

“ At least,’ said he, “ you can no more debauch any one here.” 

“Do you think so ?” said D’Artagnan, with a smile which made a shudder 
creep over the shoulders of Bazin. 

“ He is capable of it,” murmured he. 

“Where is your master’s diocese ?” 

* Monseigneur René is bishop of Vannes.” 

“Who caused him to be nominated ?” 

“ Why, monsieur le surintendant, our neighbour.” 

“What! Monsieur Fouquet ?” 

“To be sure he did.” 

“Ts Aramis on good terms with him, then ?” 

“Monseigneur preached every Sunday at the house of monsieur 
surintendant at Vaux ; then they hunted together.” 

«5 Ah 1? 

“ And monseigneur composed his homilies—no, I mean his sermo 
with monsieur le surintendant.” 

“Bah ! he preached in verse, then, this worthy bishop ?” 

“ Monsieur, for the love of heaven, do not jest with sacred things.” 

“There, Bazin, there! So then Aramis is at Vannes ?” 

“ At Vannes, in Bretagne.” 

“You are a deceitful old hunks, Bazin ; that is not true.” 

“See, monsieur, if you please ; the apartments of the presbytery are 
empty.” 

“ He is right there,” said D’Artagnan, looking attentively at the house, 
the aspect of which announced solitude. 

“ But monseigneur must have written you an account of his promotion.” 


80 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE., 


% From when does it date ?”?——‘‘ A month back.” 

“Oh! then there is no time lost. Aramis cannot yet have wanted me, 
But how is it, Bazin, you do not follow your master 2” 

“ Monsieur, I cannot ; 1 have occupations.” 

“Vour alphabet °” 

“ And my penitents.” 

“What do you confess, then? Are you a priest ?” 

“The same as one. I have such a call.” 

* But the orders ?” : 

“Oh,” said Bazin, without hesitation, “now that monseigneur is a 

bishop, I shall soon have my orders, or at least my dispensations.” And 

he rubbed his hands. j a 

“Decidedly,” said D’Artagnan to himself, “there will be no means of 
uprooting these people. Get me some supper, Bazin.” 

“With pleasure, monsieur.” 

“ A fowl, a douzllon, and a bottle of wine.” 

“This is Saturday, monsieur—it is a jour maztgre.” 

“T have a dispensation,” said D’Artagnan. 

Bazin looked at him suspiciously. 

“Ah, ah, master hypocrite !” said the musketeer, “for whom do you 
take me? If you, who are the valet, hope for dispensation for committing 
a crime, shall not I, the friend of your bishop, have dispensation for eating 
meat at the call of my stomach? Make yourself agreeable with me, Bazin, 
or, by heavens ! I will complain to the king, and you shal] never confess. 
Now, you know that the nomination of bishops rests with the king,—I 
have the king, I am the stronger.” : 

Bazin smiled hypocritically. ‘Ah, but we, we have monsieur le surin- 
tendant,” said he. 

“And you laugh at the king, then?” 

Bazin made no reply ; his smile was sufficiently eloquent. 

‘“‘ My supper,” said D’Artagnan, “it is getting towards seven o’clock.” 

Bazin turned round and ordered the eldest of the pupils to inform the 
cook. Inthe mean time, D’Artagnan surveyed the presbytery. 

“Pugh !” said he, disdainfully, “monseigneur lodged. his grandeur but 
very meanly here.” 

““We have the Chateau de Vaux,” said Bazin. 

“Which is perhaps equal to the Louvre ?” said D’Artagnan, jeeringly. 

“Which is better,” replied Bazin, with the greatest coolness imaginable 

“Ah, ah !” said D’Artagnan. 

He would perhaps have prolonged the discussion, and maintained the 
uperiority of the Louvre, but the lieutenant perceived that his horse re- 
ined fastened to the bars of a gate. 

‘The devil!” said he. “Get my horse looked after ; your master the 
op has none like him in his stables.” 

zin cast a sidelong glance at the horse, and replied, “ Monsieur le 
tendant gave him four from his own stables ; and each of the four is 
th four of yours.” , 
he blood mounted to the face of D’Artagnan. His hand itched, and 
1s eye glanced over the head of Bazin, to select the place upon which he 
should discharge his anger. But it passed away ; reflection came, and 
D’Artagnan contented himself with saying : 

“The devil! the devil! I have done well to quit the service of the 
king. Tell me, worthy Master Bazin,” added he, “ how many musketeers 
Goes monsieur le surintendant retain in his service ?” 


ARAMIS IS SOUGHT FOR. si 

“He could have all there are in the kingdom with his money,” replied 
Bazin, closing his book, and dismissing the boys with some kindly stripes 
of his cane. 

“The devil ! the devil !” repeated D’Artagnan, once more, as if to annoy 

- the pedagogue. But as supper was now announced, he followed the cook, 
who introduced him into the refectory, where it awaited him. D’Artagnan 
placed himself at table, and commenced a hearty attack upon his fowl. 

“It appears to me,” said D’Artagnan, biting with all his might at the 
tough fowl they had served up to him, and which they had evidently for- 
gotten to fatten,—“ it appears to me that I have done wrong in not going 
to take service in the suite of that master yonder. A powerful noble this — 
intendant, seemingly !_ In good truth, we poor fellows know nothing at the 
court, and the rays of the sun prevent our seeing the large stars, which are 
suns also, at alittle greater distance from our earth,—that is all.” 

As D’Artagnan delighted, both from pleasure and system, in making 
people talk about things which interested him, he fenced in his best style 
with Master Bazin, but it was pure loss of time ; ; beyond the fatiguing and 
hyperbolical praises of monsieur le surintendant of the finances, Bazin, 
who, on his side, was on his guard, afforded nothing but platitudes to the 
curiosity of D’Artagnan, so that our musketeer, in a tolerably bad humour, 
desired to go to bed as soon as he had supped. D’Artagnan was intro- 
duced by Bazin into a mean chamber, in which there was as poor a bed ; 
but D’Artagnan was not fastidious in that respect. He had been told 
that Aramis had taken away the key of his own private apartment, and as 
he knew Aramis was a very particular man, and had generally many things 
to conceal in his apartment, that had not at all astonished him. He had, 
therefore, although it appeared comparatively even harder, attacked the bed 
as bravely as he had done the fowl ; and, as he had as good an inclination 
to sleep as he had had to eat, he took scarcely longer time to be snoring 
harmoniously than he had employed in picking the last bones of the bird. 

Since he was no longer in the service of any one, D’Artagnan had pro- 
mised himsel. to indulge i in sleeping as soundly as he had formerly slept 
lightly ; but with whatever good faith D’Artagnan had made himself this 
promise, and whatever desire he might have to keep it religiously, he was 
awakened in the middle of the night by a loud noise of carriages, and 
servants on horseback. A sudden illumination flashed over the walls of 
his chamber ; he jumped out of bed and ran to the window in his shirt. 

“Can the king be coming this way ?” thought he, rubbing his eyes ; “ in 
truth, such a suite can only be attached to royalty.” | 

“ Vive Monsieur le Surintendant !” cried, or rather vociferated, from/a 
window on the ground-floor, a voice which he recognised as Bazin’ s, who, 
whilst so crying, waved a handkerchief with one hand, and held a large 
candle in the other. D’Artagnan then saw something like a brilliant human 
form leaning out at the window of the principal carriage ; at the same time 
loud bursts of laughter, provoked no doubt by the strange figure of Bazin, 
and which issued from the same carriage, left, as it were, a train of joy 
upon the passage of the rapid cortege. 

“JT might easily see it was not ‘the king,” said D’Artagnan ; “people 

_ don’t laugh so heartily when the king passes. Sola, Bazin !” cried he to 
his neighbour, who was still leaning three parts out of the window, to 
follow the carriage with his eyes as long as he could. ‘“ What is all that 
about °” 

“Tt is M. Fouquet,” replied Bazin, in a patronising tone. 

6 And all his people 2” 


ee ee tenet 


ao 


&2 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“That is the court of M. Fouquet.” 

“Oh, oh!” said D’Artagnan ; ‘‘ what would M. de Mazarin say to that 
if he heard it?’ And he returned to his truckle- bed, asking himself how 
Aramis always contrived to be protected by the most ’ powerful persons in 
the kingdom. ‘Is it that he has more luck than I, or that I am a greater 
fool than he? Bah!” That was the concluding word by the aid of which 
D’Artagnan, become wise, now terminated every thought and every period 
of his style. Formerly he said, “ M/ordioux !” which was a prick of the 
spur, but now he had become older, he murmured that philosophical 
“Bah!” which served as a bridle to all the passions. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


IN WHICH D’ARTAGNAN SEEKS FOR PORTHOS, AND ONLY FINDS 
MOUSQUETON. 


WHEN D’Artagnan had perfectly convinced himself that the absence of 
the Vicaire-Général d’Herblay was real, and that his friend was not to be 
found at Melun or in its environs, he left Bazin without regret, gave an ill- 
natured glance at the magnificent Chateau de Vaux, which was beginning 
to shine with that splendour which brought on its ruin, and, compressing 
his lips like a man full of mistrust and suspicion, he put spurs to his pied 
horse, saying, ‘‘ Well, well! I have still Pierrefonds left, and there I shall 
find the best man and the best-filled coffer. And that is all I want, for I 


. have an idea of my own.” 


We will spare our readers the prosaic incidents of D’Artagnan’s journey, 
which terminated on the morning of the third day within sight. of Pierre- 
fonds. D’Artagnan came by the way of Nanteuil-le-Hardouin and Crépy. 
At a distance he perceived the Castle d’Orléans, which, having become 
part of the crown domain, was kept by an old concierge. ‘This was one of 
those marvellous manors of the middle ages, with walls twenty feet in 
thickness, and a hundred in height. D’Artagnan rode slowly past its 
walls, measured its towers with his eyes, and descended into the valley. 
From a distance he looked down upon the chateau of Porthos, situated on 
the shores of a small Jake, and contiguous to a magnificent forest. It was 


the same place we have already had the honour of describing to our 


readers ; we shall therefore satisfy ourselves with naming it. The first 
thing D’Artagnan perceived after the fine trees, the sun of May gilding 
the sides of the green hills, long rows of feather-topped wood which 
stretched out towards Compiégne, was a large rolling box, pushed forward 
by two servants and dragged by two others. In this box there was an 
enormous green-and-gold thing, which stole along the smiling glades of 
the park, thus dragged and pushed. This thing, at a distance, was not to 
be made out, and signified absolutely nothing ; nearer, it was a tun muffled 
in gold- bound green cloth ; when close, it was a man, or rather a foussa, 
the inferior extremity of which, spreading over the interior of the box, en- 
tirely filled it ; when still closer, the man was Mousqueton—Mousqueton, 
with grey hair and a face as red as Punchinello’s. 

“ Pardieu / cried Di iazoat 3 “why, that’s my dear Monsieur Mous- 
queton !” 

“Ah !” cried the fat iat ah ! what happiness ! what joy! There’s M. 
d’Artagnan. Stop, you rascals!” These last words were addressed to the 
lackeys who pushed and dragged him. The box stopped, and the four 


DARTAGNAN SEEKS FOR PORTHOS, 83 


lackeys, with a precision quite military, took off their laced hats and ranged 
themselves behind it. 

“ Oh, Monsieur d’Artagnan !” said Mousqueton ; “why can I not em- 
brace your knees? But I am become impotent, as you see.” 

“ Dame / my dear Mousqueton, it is age.” 

“No, monsieur, it is not age; it is infirmities—troubles.” 

_ © Troubles ! you, Mousqueton?” said D’Artagnan, making the tour of 
the box ; “are you out of your mind, my dear friend? Thank God! you 
are as hearty as a three-hundred-year-old oak.” 

* Ah ! but my legs, monsieur, my legs !” groaned the faithful servant. 

“What’s the matter with your legs ?” 

“Oh, they will no longer bear me !” 

“Ah, the ingrates! And yet you feed them well, Mousqueton, appa- 
rently.” 

“Alas, yes ! They have nothing to reproach me with in that respect,” said 
Mousqueton, with a sigh ; “I have always done what I could for my poor 
body ; I am not selfish.” And Mousqueton sighed afresh. 

“T wonder whether Mousqueton wants to be a baron too, as he sighs 
after that fashion ?” thought D’Artagnan. 

“ Mon Dieu, monsieur !” said Mousqueton, as if rousing himself from 
dso revery ; “ how happy monseigneur will be that you have thought 
of him ! 

“ Kind Porthos !” cried D’Artagnan, “I am anxious to embrace him.” 

“Oh !” said Mousqueton, much affected, “I will certainly write to 
him.” 

“ How !” cried D’Artagnan, “you will write to him ?” 

“This very day ; I will not delay it an hour.” 

“Is he not here, then ?” 

“Ne, monsieur.” 

* But is he near at hand ?—is he far off ?” 

“Oh, can I tell, monsieur, can I tell ?” 

“ Mordioux /” cried the musketeer, stamping with his foot, “I am un- 
fortunate. Porthos such a stay-at-home !” 

“Monsieur, there is not a more sedentary man than monseigneur ; 
but——” 

“But what ?” 

“When a friend presses you——” 

“A friend ?” 

“ Doubtless—the worthy M. d’Herblay.” 

“What, has Aramis pressed Porthos ?” 

“This is how the thing happened, Monsieur D’Artagnan. M. d’Herblay 
wrote to monseigneur 4 

“Indeed !” 

“A letter, monsieur, such a pressing letter that it threw us all into a 
bustle.” 

“Tell me all about it, my dear friend,” said D’Artagnan ; “ but remove 
these people a little further off first.” 

Mousqueton shouted, “ Fall back, you sirs !” with such powerful lungs 
that the breath, without the words, would have been sufficient to disperse 
the four lackeys. D’Artagnan seated himself on the shaft of the box and 
opened his ears. ‘“ Monsieur,” said Mousqueton, ‘“ monseigneur, then, re- 
ceived a letter from M. le Vicaire-Général d’Herblay, eight or nine days 


ago ; it was the day of champétre pleasures,—yes, it must have been 
Wednesday.” 


» ~~ 


$4 THE VictOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“What means that ?” said D’Artagnan. “The day of champéitre plea- 
sures ?” 

“Yes, monsieur ; we have so many pleasures to take in this delightful 
country, that we were encumbered by them; so much so, that we have 
been forced to regulate the distribution of them.” 

“How easily do I recognise Porthos’ love of order in that! Now, that 
idea would never have occurred to me , but then I am not encumbered 
with pleasures.” 

“We were, chough,” said Mousaueton. 

“ And how did you regulate the matter, let me know ?” said D’Artagnan. 

“It is rather long, monsieur.” 

“ Never mind, we have plenty of time ; and you speak so well, my dear 
Mousqueton, that it is really a pleasure to hear you.” 

“Tt is true,” said Mousqueton,with a sigh of satisfaction, which emanated 
evidently from the justice which had been rendered him, “it is true I have 
made great progress in the company of monseigneur.” 

“T am waiting for the distribution of the pleasures, Mousqueton, and 
with impatience. I want to know if I have arrived on a lucky day.” 

“ Oh, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Mousqueton, in a melancholy tone, 
‘since monseigneur’s departure all the pleasures are gone too !” 

“Well, my dear Mousqueton, refresh your memory.” 

“With what day shall I begin >” 

“Eh, pardieu / begin with Sunday, that is the Lord’s day.” 

“¢ Sunday, monsieur ?” 

ce Yes.” 

‘“‘ Sunday pleasures are religious : monseigneur goes to mass, makes the 
bread-offering, and has discourses and instructions made to him by his 
almoner-in-ordinary. That is not very amusing, but we expect a Carme- 
lite from Paris who will do the duty of our almonry, and who, we are 
assured, speaks very well, which will keep us awake, whereas our present 
almoner always sends us to sleep. These are Sunday religious pleasures. 
On Monday, worldly pleasures.” 

“Ah, ah!” said D’Artagnan, “what do you mean by that? Let us have 
a glimpse at your worldly pleasures.” 

“Monsieur, on Monday we go into the world ; we pay and receive visits, 
we play on the lute, we dance, we make verses, and burn a little incense 
in honour of the ladies.” 

“ Peste / that is the height of gallantry,” said the musketeer, who was 
obliged to call to his aid all the strength of his mastoid muscles to suppress 
an enormous inclination to laugh. 

“Tuesday, learned pleasures.” 

“Good !” cried D’Artagnan. “ What are they? Detail them, my dear 
Mousqueton.” 

““Monseigneur has bought a sphere or globe, which I will show you ; it 
fills all the perimeter of the great tower, except a gallery which he has had 
built over the sphere: there are little strings and brass wires to which the 
sun and moon are hooked. It all turns ; and that is very beautiful. Mon- 
seigneur points out to me seas and. distant countries. We don’t intend 
to visit them, but it is very interesting.” 

: porerestng! yes, that’s the word,” repeated D’Artagnan. “And Wednes- 
ay! 

“ Champitre pleasures, as I have had the honour to tell you, monsieur 
le chevalier. We look over monseigneur’s sheep and goats ; we make the 
shepherds dance to pipes and reeds, as is written in a book monseigneur 


NS 


‘ 


DARTAGNAN SEEKS FOR PORTHOS. 85 


has in his library, which is called ‘ Bergeries.’ The author died about a 
month ago.” 

‘Monsieur Racan, perhaps,” said D’Artagnan. 

“Yes, that was his name—M. Racan. But that is not all: we angle in the 
little canal, after which we dine, crowned with flowers. That is Wednesday.” 

“ Peste /” said D’Artagnan ; “ you don’t divide your pleasures badly. 
And Thursday ?>—what can be left for poor Thursday ?” 

“Tt is not very unfortunate, monsieur,” said Mousqueton, smiling. 
“Thursday, Olympic pleasures. Ah, monsieur, that is superb! We get 
together all monseigneur’s young vassals, and we make them throw the 
disc, wrestle, and run races. Monseigneur can’t run now, no more can I; 
but monseigneur throws the disc as nobody else can throw it. And when 
he does deal a blow, oh, that proves a misfortune !” 

“ How so ?” 

“Yes, monsieur, we were obliged to renounce the cestus. He cracked 
heads ; he broke jaws—beat in ribs. It was charming sport ; but nobody 
was willing to play with him.” 

“‘ Then his wrist 4 

“Oh, monsieur, more firm than ever. Monseigneur gets alittle weaker 
in his legs,—he confesses that himself; but his strength has all taken 
refuge in his arms, so that ‘3 

“So that he can knock down bullocks, as he used formerly.” 

“Monsieur, better than that—he beats in walls. Lately, after having 
supped with one of our farmers—you know how popular and kind mon- 
seigneur is—after supper, as a joke, he struck the walla blow. The wall 
crumbled away beneath his hand, the roof fell, and three men and an old 
woman were stifled.” 

“Good God, Mousqueton! And your master ?” 

“Oh, monseigneur, his head had a little skin rubbed off. We bathed 
the wounds with the water which the monks give us. But there was 
nothing the matter with his hand.” 

“* Nothing ?” 

“No, nothing, monsieur.” 

“ Deuce take the Olympic pleasures! They must cost your master too 
dear ; for widows and orphans——” 

‘They all had pensions, monsieur ; a tenth of monseigneur’s revenue 
was spent in that way.” 

“Then pass on to Friday,” said D’Artagnan. 

“Friday, noble and warlike pleasures. We hunt, we fence, we dress 
falcons and break horses. Then, Saturday is the day for intellectual 
pleasures : we furnish our minds ; we look at monseigneur’s pictures and 
statues ; we write, even, and trace plans ; and then we fire monseigneur’s 
cannon.” 

“You draw plans, and fire cannon ?” 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“Why, my friend,” said D’Artagnan, “M. du Valon, in truth, possesses 
the most subtle and amiable mind that I know. But there is one kind of 
pleasure you have forgotten, it appears to me.” 

“ What is that, monsieur ?” asked Mousqueton, with anxiety. 

‘The material pleasures.” 

Mousqueton coloured. ‘ What do you mean by that, monsieur ?” said 
he, casting down his eyes. 
~ “JT mean the table—good wine—evenings occupied in the circulation of 
the bottle.” 


| ae 
§5 - FHE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“Ah, monsieur, we don’t reckon those pleasures,—we practise them 
every day.” : 

“My brave Mousqueton,” resumed D’Artagnan, “ pardon me, but I was 
so absorbed in your charming recital that I have forgotten the principal 
object of our conversation, which-was to learn what M. le Vicaire-Général 
d’Herblay could have to write to your master about ?” 

“ That is true, monsieur,” said Mousqueton ; “the pleasures have misled 
us. Well, monsieur, this is the whole affair.” 

““T am all attention, Mvousqueton.” 

“On Wednesday 2 

“The day of the champétre pleasures ®” 

“‘ Ves——a letter arrived ; he received it from my hands. I had recog- 
nised the writing.” 

VEILS” 

“ Monseigneur read it and cried out, ‘ Quick, my horses! my arms !’ ” 

“ Oh, good Lord! then it was for some duel ?” said D’Artagnan. 

“ No, monsieur, there were only these words : ‘ Dear Porthos, set out, 
if you would wish to arrive before the Equinox. I expect you.’” 

“ VWordioux / said D’Artagnan, thoughtfully, “that is pressing, ap- 
parently.” 

“T think so; therefore,” continued Mousqueton, “ monseigneur set 
out the very same day with his secretary, in order to endeavour to arrive 
in time.” 

‘And did he arrive in time ?” 

““T hope so. Monseigneur, who is hasty, as you know, monsieur, re- 
peated unceasingly, ‘ Zone Liew! What can this mean? The Equinox ? 
Never mind, the fellow must be well mounted if he arrives before I do.’” 

“And yeu think Porthos will have arrived first, do you?’ asked 
D’Artagnan. 

“T am sure of it. This Equinox, however rich he may be, has certainly 
no horses so good as monseigneur’s.” 

D’Artagnan repressed his inclination to laugh, because the brevity of 
Aramis’s letter gave rise to reflection. He followed Mousqueton, or rather 
Mousqueton’s chariot, to the castle. He sat down to a sumptuous table, 
of which they did him the honours as to a king. But he could draw no- 
thing from Mousqueton,—the faithful servant seemed to shed tears at will, 
but that was all. 

D’Artagnan, after a night passed in an excellent bed, reflected much 
upon the meaning of Aramis’s letter ; puzzled himself as to the relation of 
the Equinox with the affairs of Porthos ; and being unable to make any- 
thing out, unless it concerned some amour of the bishop’s, for which it 
was necessary that the days and nights should be equal, D’Artagnan left 
Pierrefonds as he had left Melun, as he had left the chateau of the Comte 
de la Fére. It was not, however, without a melancholy, which might by 
good right pass for one of the dullest of D’Artagnan’s humours. His head 
cast down, his eyes fixed, he suffered his legs to hang on each side of his 
horse, and said to himself, in that vague sort of reverie which ascends 
sometimes to the sublimest eloquence : 

“No more friends ! no more future! no more anything! My energies 
are broken like the bonds of our ancient friendship. Oh, old age arrives, 
cold and inexorable ; it envelops in its funeral crape all that was brilliant, 
all that was embalming in my youth ; then it throws that sweet burthen 


on its shoulders and carries it away with the rest into the fathomless gulf 
of death.” - 


D'ARTAGNAN SEEKS FOR PORTHOS. 84 


A shudder crept through the heart of the Gascon, so brave and so strong 
against all the misfortunes of life ; and during some moments, the clouds 
appeared black to him, the earth slippery and full of pits as that of 
cemeteries. 

“Whither am I going ?” said he to himself. ‘‘ What am I going to do! 
Alone, quite alone—without family, without friends! Bah!” cried he all 
at once. And he clapped spurs to his horse, who, having found nothing 
melancholy in the heavy oats of Pierrefonds, profited by this permission 
to show his gaiety in a gallop which absorbed two leagues. ‘To Paris !”' 
said D’Artagnan to himself. And on the morrow he alighted in Paris. H¢ 
had devoted six days to this journey. 


CHAPTER XIX. 
WHAT D’ARTAGNAN WENT TO DO IN PARIS. 


THE lieutenant dismounted before a shop in the Rue des Lombards, at 
the sign of the Pz/on a’Or. A man of good appearance, wearing a white 
apron, and stroking his grey moustache with a large hand, uttered a cry of 
joy on perceiving the pied horse. “ Monsieur le chevalier,” said he, “ ah, 
is that you ?” 

“ Bon jour, Planchet,” replied D’Artagnan, stooping to enter the shop. 

* Quick, somebody,” cried Planchet, “to look after Monsieur d’Artag- 
nan’s horse,—somebody to get ready his chamber,—somebody to prepare 
his supper.” 

“Thanks, Planchet. Good day, my children,” said D’Artagnan to the 
eager boys. 

“‘ Allow me to send off this coffee, this treacle, and these raisins,” said 
Planchet ; “ they are for the office of monsieur le surintendant.” 

* Send them off, send them off !” 

“That is only the affair of a moment, then we will sup.” 

“Order so that we may sup alone ; I want to speak to you.” 

Planchet looked at his old master in a significant manner. 

“ Oh, be at ease, it is nothing unpleasant,” said D’Artagnan. 

“So much the better—so much the better!” And Planchet breathed 
freely again, whilst D’Artagnan seated himself quietly down in the shop, 
upon a bale of corks, and took connaissance of the localities. The shop 
was well stocked ; there was a mingled perfume of ginger, cinnamon, and 
ground pepper, which made D’Artagnan sneeze. The shop-boys, proud of 
being in company with so renowned a man of war, of a lieutenant of mus- 
keteers, who approached the person of the king, began to work with an 
enthusiasm which was something like delirium, and to serve the customers 
with a disdainful precipitation that was remarked by several. 

Planchet put away his money, and made up his accounts, amidst civili- 
ties addressed to his old master. Planchet had with his equals the short 
speech and the haughty familiarity of the rich shopkeeper who serves 
everybody and waits for nobody. D’Artagnan observed this shade with a 
pleasure which we will analyse presently. He sawnight come on by de- 
grees, and at length Planchet conducted him to a chamber on the first 
story. where, amidst bales and chests, a table very nicely set out awaited 
the two guests. 

D’Artagnan took advantage of a moment’s pause to examine the coun- 
tenance of Planchet, whom he had not seen for a year past. The shrewd 
Planchet had acquired a slight protuberance in front, but his countenance 


83 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


was not puffed. His keen eye still played with facility in its deep-sunk 
orbit ; and fat, which levels all the characteristic saliences of the human 
face, had not yet touched either his high cheek-bones, the index of cunning 
and cupidity, or his pointed chin, the index of acuteness and perseverance. 
Planchet reigned with as much majesty in his dining-room as in his shop. 
He set before his master a frugal, but a perfectly Parisian repast: roast 
meat, cooked at the baker’s, with vegetables, salad, and a dessert borrowed 
from the shop itself D’Artagnan was pleased that the grocer had drawn 
from behind the fagots a bottle of that Anjou wine which, during all his 
life, had been D’Artagnan’s wine by predilection. _ 

“ Formerly, monsieur,” said Planchet, with a smile full of doxhomze, 
was I who drank your wine ; now you do me the honour to drink mine.” 

“ And, thank God, friend Planchet, I shall drink it for a long time to 
come, I hope; for at present I am free.” 

“Free? You have leave of absence, monsieur ?” 

“ Unlimited.” 

“ You are leaving the service ?” said Planchet, stupefied. 

“ Ves, I am resting.” 

“And the king ?” cried Planchet, who could not suppose it possible that 
the king could do without the services of such aman as D’Artagnan. 

“The king will try his fortune elsewhere. But we have supped well, you 
are disposed to enjoy yourself ; you provoke me to repose confidence in 
you. Open your ears, then.” ; i 

“They are open.” And Planchet, with a laugh more frank than cunning, 
opened a bottle of white wine. 

‘‘Teave me my reason, though.” 

* Oh, as to you losing your head— you, monsieur !” 

“ Now my head is my own, and I mean to take better care of it than 
ever. Inthe first place, we will talk of finance. How fares your money-box?” 

“Wonderfully well, monsieur. The twenty thousand livres I had of you 
are still employed in my trade, in which they bring me nine percent. I 
give you seven, so I gain two by you.” 

“ And you are still satisfied ?” 

“Delighted. Have you brought me any more ?” 

“Better than that. But do you want any ?” 

“Oh! not at all, Every one is willing to trust me now. I am extending 
my business.” 

“That was your project.” 

“T play the banker a little. I buy goods of my necessitous brethren ; I 
lend money to those who are not ready for their payments.” 

“Without usury ?” 

“Oh! monsieur, in the course of the last week I have had two meetings 
on the boulevards, on account of the word you have just pronounced.” 

“What ?” 

“You shall see : it concerned a loan. The borrower gives me in pledge 
some raw sugars, upon condition that I should sell if repayment were not 
made at a fixed period. I lend a thousand livres. He does not pay me, 
and I sell the sugars for thirteen hundred livres. He learns this and 
claims a hundred crowns. Ma foz/ I refused, pretending that I coul 
not sell them for more than nine hundred livres. He accused me of 
usury. I begged him to repeat that word to me behind the boulevards. 
He was an old guard, and he came ; and I passed your sword through his 
left thigh.” 

“ Tu dieu / what a pretty sort of banker you make !” said D’Artagnan. 


(Ta 


it 


DARTAGNAN IN PARIS. $9 


“For above thirteen per cent. I fight,” replied Planchet : “that is my 
character.” 

“Take only twelve,” said D’Artagnan, “and call the rest premium and 
brokerage.’ 

“You are right, monsieur ; but to your business.” 

“Ah! Planchet, it is very long and very hard to speak.” 

“Do speak it, nevertheless.” 

D’Artagnan twisted his moustache like a man embarrassed with the con- 
fidence he is about to repose, and mistrustful of his confidant. 

“Ts it an investment ?” asked Planchet. 

“Why, yes.” “At good profit ?” 

“A capital profit,—four hundred per cent., Planchet.” 

Planchet gave such a blow with his fist upon the table, that the bottles 
bounded as if they had been frightened. 

“Good heavens ! is that possible ?” 

“I think it will be more,” replied D’Artagnan coolly ; “but I like to lay 
it at the lowest.” 

“ The devil !" said Planchet, drawing nearer. “Why, monsieur, that is 
magnificent ! Can one place much money in it ?” 

“Twenty thousand livres each, Planchet.” 

“Why, that is all you have, monsieur. For how long a time?” 

“For a month.” 

“ And that will give us 

“Fifty thousand livres each, profit.” 

“It is monstrous ! It is worth while to fight for such interest as that !” 

“In fact, I believe it will be necessary to fight not a little,” said D’Ar- 
tagnan, with the same tranquillity ; “but this time there are two of us, 
Planchet, and I will take all the blows to myself.” 

~“Oh! monsieur, I will not allow that.” 

“Planchet, you cannot be concerned in it ; you would be obliged to leave 
your business and your family.” 

“The affair is not in Paris, then.”———“ No.” 

‘* Abroad ?” “In England.” 

“A speculative country, that is true,” said Planchet,—“a country I am 
well acquainted with. What sort of an affair, monsieur, without too much 
curiosity ?” 

“* Planchet, it is a restoration.” 

“ Of monuments ?” 

“Yes, of monuments ; we will restore Whitehall.” 

“That is important. And in a month, you think ?” 

“ T will undertake it.” 

“That concerns you, monsieur, and when once you are engaged——” 

“Yes, that concerns me. I know what I am about; nevertheless, I will 
freely consult with you.” 

“You do me great honour; but I know very little about architecture.” 

“‘Planchet, you are wrong ; you are an excellent architect, quite as good 
as I am, for the case in question.” 

“Thanks, monsieur. But your old friends of the musketeers ?” 

“T have been, I confess, tempted to name the thing to those gentlemen, 
but they are all absent from their houses. It 1s vexatious, for I know none 
more bold or more able.” 

“Ah! then it appears there will be an opposition, and the enterprise will 
be disputed ?” 

“Oh yes, Planchet, yes,” 


” 


- a 


90 THE VICOMTE Dl BRAGELONAE, 


“T burn to know the details, monsieur.” 

‘“‘ They are these, Planchet—close all the doors firmly.” a 

“Yes, monsieur.” And Planchet double-locked them.” 

“ That is well ; now draw near.” Planchet obeyed. 

“ And open the window, because the noise of the passers-by and the © 
carts will deafen all who might hear us. Planchet opened the window as 
desired, and the puff of tumult which filled the chamber with cries, wheels, 
barkings, and steps deafened D’Artagnan himself, as he had wished. He 
then swallowed a glass of white wine, and commenced in these terms : 
“ Planchet, I have an idea.” : 

“Ah! monsieur, I recognise you so well in that!” replied Planchet, 
panting with emotion. 


CHAPTER XX, 


OF THE SOCIETY WHICH WAS FORMED IN THE RUE DES LOMBARDS, AT 
THE SIGN OF THE “PILON D’OR,” TO CARRY OUT THE IDEA OF M. 
D’ARTAGNAN. 

AFTER an instant of silence, in which D’Artagnan appeared to be collect- 4 

ing, not one idea, but all his ideas—“ It cannot be, my dear Planchet,” 

said he, “that you have not heard speak of his majesty Charles 1. of Eng- 
land ?” 

‘Alas! yes, monsieur, since you left France in order to carry him 
assistance, and that, in spite of that assistance, he fell, and was near 
dragging you down in his fall.” 

‘“‘ Exactly so, I see you have agood memory, Planchet.” 

‘“‘ Peste ! the astonishing thing would be, if I could have lost that me- 
mory, however bad it might have been. When one-has heard Grimaud, 
who, you know, is not given to talking, relate how the head of King 
Charles fell, how you sailed the half of a night in a scuttled vessel, and 
saw rise up upon the water that M. Mordaunt with a certain gold-hafted 
poniard sticking in his breast, one is not very likely to forget such things.” 

‘“‘ And yet there are people who forget them, Planchet.” 

“Yes, such as have not seen them, or have not heard Grimaud relate 
them.” 

“Well, it is all the better that you recollect all that ; I shall only have 
to remind you of one thing, and that is, that Charles I. had a son.” 

“Without contradicting you, monsieur, he had two,” said Planchet ; 
“for I saw the second in Paris, M. le Duke of York, one day, as he was 
going to the Palais Royal, and I was told that he was not the eldest son of 
Charles I. Asto the eldest, 1 have the honour of knowing him by name, 
but not personally.” 

“That is exactly the point, Planchet, we must come to: it is to this 
eldest son, formerly called the prince of Wales, and who is now styled 
Charles IJ., king of England.” 

“A king without a kingdom, monsieur,” replied Planchet sententiously. 

“Yes, Planchet, and you may add an unfortunate prince, more unfortu- 
nate than a man of the dregs of the people in the worst quarter of Paris.” 

Planchet made a gesture full of that sort of compassion which we grant 
to strangers with whom we think we can never possibly find ourselves in 
contact. Besides, he did not see in this politico-sentimental operation, 
any sign of the commercial idea of M. d’Artagnan, and it was in this 
idea that D’Artagnan, who was, by habit, pretty well acquainted with men 
and things, had principally interested Planchet, 


Path ae Nery ee 
without a kingd 
I, D’Artagnan, | 
cuistre, and the 
am acquainted 
king, in the nol 
his miseries, 

Planchet 
least, throy 
“ This, th; 
ively, Ple 

“Tam 

“ King 
them wh 
my opinid 
provided 3 
selecting s 

Planch 


death of the jate 
elie its acts,” 
p ! The nation— 


D'ARTAGNAN’S IDEA. 93 


themselves Rumps and Barebones? The parliament does not trouble me 
at ail, Planchet.” 

‘¢ As soonas it ceases to trouble you, monsieur, let us pass on.” 

“Yes, and arrive at the result. You remember Cromwell, Planchet ?” 

*‘T have heard a great deal of talk about him.” 

‘“He was a rough soldier.” 

* And a terrible eater, moreover.” 

“What do you mean by that ?” 

“Why, at one gulp, he swallowed all England.” 

‘** Well, Planchet, the evening before the day on which he swallowed 
England, if any one had swallowed M. Cromwell?” 

**Oh! monsieur, that is one of the first axioms of mathematics, that the 
container must be greater than the contained.’ 
~*“Very well! That is our affair, Planchet.” 

“But M Cromwell is dead, and his container is now the tontb.” 

“ My dear Planchet, I see with pleasure, that you have not only become 
a mathematician, but a philosopher.” 

* Monsieur, in my grocery business I use much printed paper, and that 
instructs me.” 

“Bravo ! You know then, in that case—for you have not learnt mathe- 
matics and philosophy without a little history—that after this Crcmwell so 
great, there came one who was very little.” 

“Yes ; he was named Richard, and he has done as you have, M. d’Ar- 
tagnan—he has given in his resignation.” 

“Very well said—very well! After the great man who is dead, after the 
little one who gave in his resignation, there is come a third. This one is 
named Monk; he is an able general, considering he has never fought a 
battle ; he is a skilful diplomatist, considering that he never speaks in 
wa and that having to say ‘good day’ to a man, he meditates twelve 
hours, and ends by saying ‘good night ; which makes people exclaim 
‘miracle |’ seeing that it falls out correctly.” 

“That is rather strong,” said Planchet ; “ but I know another polite man 
who resembles him very much.” 

“M. Mazarin, don’t you mean ?”-——“* Himself.” 

“You are right, Planchet ; only M. Mazarin does not aspire to the 
throne of France; and that changes everything. Do you see? Well, 
this M. Monk, who has England ready-roasted in his plate, and who is 
already opening his mouth to swallow it—this M. Monk, who says to the 
people of Charles II., and to Charles II himself, ‘ Nesczo vos’ ? 

“T don’t understand English,” said Planchet. 

“Yes, but I understand it,” said D’Artagnan. ‘‘‘ Vescio vos’ means ‘1 
do not know you.’ This M. Monk, the most important man in England, 
when he shall have swallowed it : 

“ Well?” asked Planchet. 

“Well, my friend, I will go over yonder, and with my forty men I will 
carry him off, pack him up, and bring him into France, wherg two modes 
of proceeding present-themselves to my dazzled eyes.” 

““Oh ! and to mine too,” cried Planchet, transported with enthusiasm. 
“ We will put him in a cage and show him for money.” 

“Well, Planchet, that is a third plan of which I had not thought.” 

“Do you think it a good one ?” 

“Yes, certainly ; but I think mine better.” 

“ Let us see yours, then.” 

“In the first place, I will set a ransom on him,” 


94 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


** Of how much ?” 

“ Peste/ a fellow like that must be well worth a hundred thousand 
crowns.” 

 Yesiyea’) 

“You see, then—in the first place, a ransom of a hundred thousand 
crowns.” 

“ Or else ——’ 

“‘ Or else, which is much better, I deliver him up to. King Charles, who, 
having no longer either a general or an army to fear, nor a diplomatist to 
trick him, will restore himself, and when once restored will pay down to 
me the hundred thousand crowns in question. ‘That is the idea 1 have 
formed ; what do you say to it, Planchet ?” 

“Magnificent, monsieur !” cried Planchet, trembling with emotion. 
“ How did you conceive that idea ?”’ 

“ft came’to me one morning on the banks of the Loire, whilst our be- 
loved king, Louis XIV., was pretending to snivel upon the hand of Made- 
moiselle de Mancini.” : 

** Monsieur, I declare the idea is sublime. But < 

* Ah! is there a dz¢ 2” “ 

“Permit me! But this is a little like the skin of that fine bear—you 
know—that they were about to sell, but which it was necessary to take 
from the back of the living bear. Now, to take M. Monk, there will bea 
bit of a scuffle, I should think.” 

“No doubt ; but as I shall raise an army——” 

“Yes, yes—I understand, jpardleu/—a coup-de-main. Yes, then, 
monsieur, you will triumph, for no one equals you in such sort of en- 
counters.” - 

“T certainly am lucky in them,” said D’Artagnan, with a proud sim- 
plicity. ‘“‘ You know that if for this affair I had my dear Athos, my brave — 
Porthos, and my cunning Aramis, the business would be settled ; but they 
are all lost, as it appears, and nobody knows where to find them. I will 
do it, then, alone. Now, do you find the business good, and the invest- 
ment advantageous ?” 

“Too much so—too much so.” 

‘“ How can that be ?” 

* Because fine things never reach the point expected.” 

“This is infallible, Planchet, and the proof is that I undertake it. It 
will be for you a tolerably pretty gain, and for mea very interesting stroke. 
It will be said, ‘Such was the old age of M. D’Artagnan ;’ and I shall hold 
a place in stories, and even in history itself, Planchet. I am greedy of 
honour.” 

‘‘ Monsieur,” cried Planchet, “when I think that itis here, in my home, 
in the midst of my sugar, my prunes, and my cinnamon, that this gigantic 
project is ripened, my shop seems a palace to me.” 

“ Beware, beware, Planchet ! If the least report of this escapes, there is 
the Bastille for both of us. Beware, my friend; for this is a plot we are 
hatching. M. Monk is the ally of M. Mazarin—beware !” 

“ Monsieur, when a man has had the honour to belong to you, he knows 
nothing of fear ; and when he has the advantage of being bound up in 
interests with you, he holds his tongue.” 

“Very well ; that is more your affair than mine, seeing that in a week I 
shall be in England.” 

“Begone, begone, monsieur—the sooner the better.” 

“Ts the money then ready ?” pesdhe 


) ; 


DARTAGNAN'S IDEA, 95 


“Tt will be to-morrow ; to-morrow you shall receive it from my own 
hands. Will you have gold or silver ?” 

“Gold; that is most convenient. But how are we going to arrange 
this? Let us see.” 
~ “Oh, good Lord! in the simplest way possible. You shall give me a 
receipt, that is all.” 

_ “No, no,” said D’Artagnan, warmly ; “we must preserve order in all 
things.” 

“That is likewise my opinion ; but with you, M. d’Artagnan——’ 
- And if I should die yonder—if I am killed by a musket-ball—if I 
should burst with drinking beer ?” 

“ Monsieur, I beg you to believe that in that case I should be so much 
afflicted at your death, that I should think nothing about the money.” 

“Thank you, Planchet ; but that will not do. We will, like two lawyers’ 
clerks, draw up together an agreement, a sort of act, which may be called 
a deed of company.” 

“Willingly, monsieur.” } 

“T know it is difficult to draw such a thing up, but we will try.” 

“Tet us try, then.” And Planchet went in search of pens, ink, and 
paper. D’Artagnan took the pen and wrote :—“ Between Messire d’Ar- 
jtagnan, ex-lieutenant of the king’s musketeers, at present residing in the 
Rue Tiquetonne, Hotel de la Chevrette ; and the Sieur Planchet, grocer, 
residing in the Rue des Lombards, at the sign of the ‘ Pilon d’Or,’ it has 
been agreed as follows :—A company, with a capital of forty thousand 
livres, and formed for the purpose of carrying out an idea conceived by M. 
d’Artagnan. The Sieur Planchet, who is acquainted with this idea of M. 
d’Artagnan, and who approves of it in all points, will place twenty thou- 
sand livres in the hands of M. d’Artagnan. He will require neither repay- 
ment nor interest before the return of M. d’Artagnan from a voyage he is 
about to make into England. On his part, M. d’Artagnan undertakes to 
find twenty thousand livres, which he will join to the 4wenty thousand 
already laid down by the Sieur Planchet. He wil! employ the said sum 
of forty thousand livres as good to him shall seem, but still in an under- 
taking which is described belbw. On the day in which M. d’Artagnan 
shall have re-established, by whatever means, his majesty King Charles II. 
upon the throne of Ensrand, he will pay into the hands of M. Planchet the 
sum of——” 

«Tie sum of a hundred and fifty thousand livres,” said Planchet, inno- 
cently, perceiving that D’Artagnan hesitated. 

“ Oh, the devil, no !” said D’Artagnan, “ the division cannot be made by 
half ; that would not be just.” 

“And yet, monsieur, we each lay down half,” objected Planchet, 
timidly. 

“Ves ; but listen to this clause, my dear Planchet, and if you do not 
find it equitable in every respect, when it is written, well, we can scratch 
it out again :—‘ Nevertheless, as M. d’Artagnan brings to the associa- 
tion, besides his capital of twenty thousand livres, his time, his idea, his 
industry, and his skin,—things which he appreciates strongly, particularly 
the last,—M. d’Artagnan will keep, of the three hundred thousand livres, 
two hundred thousand livres for himself, which will make his share two- 
thirds.’” 

“ Very well,” said Planchet. 

“Ts it just ?”? asked D’Artagnan. 

* Perfectly just, monsieur.” 


) 


le) THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“And you will be contented with a hundred thousand livres ”” 

“ Peste/ I think so, A hundred thousand for twenty thousand !” 

“¢ And in a month, understand.” 

* How, in a month?” 

“Yes, I only ask one month.” 

‘“ Monsieur,” said Planchet, generously, “I will give you six weeks.” 

“ Thank you,” replied the musketeer civilly ; after which the two part- 
ners reperused their deed. 

“That is perfect, monsieur,” said Planchet ; “and the late M. Coque- 
nard, the first husband of Madame la Baronne du Valon, could not have 
done it better.” 


“Do you find it so? Let us sign it, then.” And both affixed their 
signatures. 


“In this fashion,” said D’Artagnan, “I shall have no obligations to any 
one.” 
-“ But I shall be under obligations to you,” said Planchet. 

“No; for whatever store I set by it, Planchet, I may lose my skin 
yonder, and you will lose all. A pJropos—peste /—that makes me think of 
the principal, an indispensable clause. I will write it :—‘In the case of 
M. d’Artagnan succumbing in this enterprise, liquidation will be considered 
made, and the Sieur Planchet will give quittance from that moment to 
the shade of Messire d’Artagnan, for the twenty thousand livres paid by 
him into the cazsse of the said company’? ” 

This last clause made Planchet knit his brows a little ; but when he saw 
the brilliant eye, the muscular hand, the back so supple and so strong, of 
his associate, he regained his courage, and, without regret, he at once 
added another stroke to his signature. D’Artagnan did the same. Thus 
-yas drawn the first act of a company known ; perhaps such things have 
been apised a little since, both in form and principle. 

“ Now,” saia Planchet, pouring out the last glass of Anjou wine for 
D’Artagnan, --“ now {0 to sleep, my dear master.” : 

“No,” replied D’Artagnai.; “for the most difficult part now remains to 
be done, and I will think over fhat afffeult part ” 

“ Bah !” said Planchet ; “I have such a gisat confidence in you, M. 
d’Artagnan, that I would not give my hundred thyisand livres for ninety 
thousand livres down.” poeta ery : 

“And devil take me if I don’t think you are right!” Upux which 
D’Artagnan took a candle and went up to his bedroom. zi 


~ 


CHAPTER XXI- 


IN WHICH D'ARTAGNAN PREPARES TO TRAVEL FOR THE HOUSE OF 
PLANCHET AND COMPANY, 


D°’ARTAGNAN reflected to such good purpose during the night, that his 
plan was settled by morning. “ This is it,” said he, sitting up in bed, sup- 
porting his elbow on his knee, and his chin in his hand ;—“ This is it. I 
will seek out forty steady, firm men, recruited among people a little com- 
promised, but having habits of discipline. I will promise them five hm 
dred livres for a month if they return ; nothing if they do not return, o1 
half for their kindred. As to food and lodging, that concerns the English, 
who have beasts in their pastures, bacon in their bacon-racks, fowls in 
their poultry-yards, and corn in their barns. I will present myself to 
General Monk with my little body of troops. He will receive me. I shall 
gain his confidence, and will abuse it as soon as possible,” 


DARTAGNAN PREPARES TO TRAVEL. oY 


But without going farther, D’Artagnan shook his head and interrupted 
himself. “No,” said he; “I should not dare to relate this to Athos ; the 
means is not then honourable. I must use violence,” continued he,— 
“very certainly, I must, but without compromising my loyalty. With 
forty men I will traverse the country as a partisan. But if I fall in with, 
not forty thousand English, as Planchet said, but purely and simply with 
four hundred, I shall be beaten. Supposing that among my forty warriors 
there should be found at least ten stupid ones—ten who will allow them- 
selves to be killed one after the other, from mere folly? No; it is, 
in fact, impossible to find forty men to be depended upon—that does not 
exist. I must learn how to be contented with thirty. With ten men less 
I should have the right of avoiding any armed rencontre, on account of 
the small number of my people ; and if the rencontre should take place, 
my chance is much more certain with thirty men than forty. Besides, I 
should save five thousand francs ; that is to say, the eighth of my capital : 
that is worth the trial. This being so, I should have thirty men. I will 
divide them into three bands,—we will spread ourselves about over the 
country, with an injunction to reunite at a given moment ; in this fashion, 
ten by ten, we should excite no suspicion—we should pass unperceived. 
Yes, yes, thirty—that is a magic number. There are three tens—three, 
that divine number! And then, truly, a company of thirty men, when all 
together, will look rather imposing. Ah! stupid wretch that I am !” con- 
tinued D’Artagnan, “I want thirty horses. That is ruinous. Where the 
devil was my head when I forgot the horses? We cannot, however, 
think of striking such a blow without horses. Well, so be it, that sacrifice 
must be made ; we can get the horses in the country—they are not bad, 
besides. But I forgot—feste/ Three bands—that necessitates three 
leaders : there is the difficulty. Of the three commanders I have already 
one—that is myself ;—yes, but the two others willof themselves cost almost 
as much money as all the rest of the troop. No: decidedly I must have but 
one lieutenant. In that case, then, I should reduce my troop to twenty 
men. I know very well that twenty men is but very little; but since 
with thirty I was determined not to seek to come to blows, I should do 
so more carefully still with twenty. Twenty—that is a round number ; 
that, besides, reduces the number of the horses by ten, which is a con- 
sideration ; and then, with a good lieutenant Mordioux ! what 
things patience and calculation are! Was I not going to embark with 
forty men, and I have now reduced them to twenty for an equal success f 
Ten thousand livres saved at one stroke, and more safety ; that is well! 
Now, then, let us see ; we have nothing to do but to find this lieutenant 
—let him be found, then ; and after ? That is not so easy; he must 
be brave and good, a second myself. Yes; but a lieutenant must have 
my secret, and as that secret is worth a million, and I shall only pay my 
man a thousand livres, fifteen hundred at the most, my man will sell the 
secret to Monk. JA/ordzoux/ no lieutenant. Besides, this man, were he 
as mute as a disciple of Pythagoras,—this man would be sure to have 
in the troop some favourite soldier, whom he would make his sergeant ; 
the sergeant would penetrate the secret of the lieutenant, in case the 
latter should be honest and unwilling to sell it. Then the sergeant, 
less honest and less ambitious, will give up the whole for fifty thou- 
sand livres. Come, come! that is impossible. Decidedly the heutenant 
is impossible. But then I must have no fractions ; I cannot divide my 
troop into two, and act upon two points at once, without another self, 
who—— But what is the use of acting upon two points, as we have 


7 


98 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


only one man to take? What can be the good to weaken a corps by 
placing the right here, and the left there? <A single corps, M/ordioux ] a 
single one, and that commanded by D’Artagnan. Very well. But twenty 
men marching in one band are suspected by everybody ; twenty horse- 
men must not be seen marching together, or a company will be detached 
against them, and the orderly word will be required ; and which company, 
upon seeing the embarrassment of the troop in giving it, would shoot 
M. d’Artagnan and his men like so many rabbits. I reduce myself then 
to ten men ; in this fashion I shall act simply and with unity ; I shall be 
forced to be prudent, which is half success in an affair of the kind I am 
undertaking ; a greater number might, perhaps, have drawn me into some 
folly. Ten horses are not many either to buy or take. A capital idea ; 
what tranquillity it infuses into my mind! No more suspicions—no 
orderly words—no more dangers! Ten men,—they are valets or clerks. 
Ten men, leading ten horses laden with merchandise of whatever kind, 
are tolerated, well received everywhere. Ten men travel on account of 
the house of Planchet and Co., of France: nothing can be said against 
that. These ten men, clothed like manufacturers, have a good cutlass or 
a good mousqueton at their saddle-bow, and a good pistol in the holster. 
They never allow themselves to be uneasy, because they have no evil 
designs. They are perhaps, at bottom, a little disposed to be smugglers, 
but what harm is in that? Smuggling is not, like polygamy, a hanging 
offence. The worst that can happen to us is the confiscation of our mer- 
chandise. Our merchandise confiscated—a fine affair that! Come, 
come! it is a superb plan. Ten men only—ten men, whom I will engage 
for my service ; ten men, who shall be as resolute as forty who would cost 
me four times as much, and to whom, for greater security, I will never 
open my mouth as to my designs, and to whom I shall only say, ‘My 
friends, there is a blow to be struck.’ Things being after this fashion, 
Satan will be very malicious if he plays me one of his tricks. Fifteen 
thousand livres saved—that’s superb—out of twenty !” 

Thus fortified by his laborious calculations, D’Artagnan stopped at this 
plan, and determined to change nothing init. He had already on a list 
furnished by his inexhaustible memory, ten men illustrious amongst the 
seekers of adventures, ill treated by fortune, and not on good terms with 
justice. Upon this D’Artagnan rose, and instantly set off on the search, 
telling Planchet not to expect him at breakfast, and perhaps not at dinner. 
A day and a half spent in rummaging amongst certain cabins in Paris 
sufficed for his recruiting ; and, without allowing his adventurers to com- 
municate with each other, he had picked up and got together, in less than 
thirty hours, a charming collection of ill-looking faces, speaking a French 
less pure than the English they were about to attempt. These men wer, 


for the most part, guards, whose merit D’Artagnan had had an opportunity > 


of appreciating in various rencontres, and whom drunkenness, unlucky 
sword-thrusts, unexpected winnings at play, or the economical reforms of 
Mazarin, had forced to seek shade and solitude, those two great consolers 
of irritated and chafed spirits. They bore upon their countenances and 
in their vestments the traces of the heartaches they had undergone. 
Some had their visages scarred,—all had their clothes in rags. D?’Artag- 
nan comforted the most needy of these fraternal miserables by a prudent 
distribution of the crowns of the society ; then having taken care that 
these crowns should be employed in the physical improvement of the 
troop, he appointed a rendezvous with them in the north of France, 
between Berghes and Saint-Omer. Six days were allowed as the utmost 


ut, 


DARTAGNAN PREPARES TO TRAVEL. 99 


term, and D’Artagnan was sufficiently acquainted with the good will, the 
good humour, and the relative probity of these illustrious recruits, to be 
certain that not one of them would fail in his appointment. These 
orders given, this rendezvous fixed, he went to bid farewell to Planchet, 
who asked news of his army. D’Artagnan did not think proper to inform 
him of the reduction he had made in his Zersonnel. He feared he should 
make an abatement in the confidence of his associate by such an avowal. 
Planchet was delighted to learn that the army was levied, and that he 
(Planchet) found himself a kind of half-king, who, from his throne-counter, 
kept in pay a body of troops destined to make war against perfidious Albion, 
that enemy of all true French hearts. Planchet paid down, in double-louis, 
twenty thousand livres to D’Artagnan, on the part of himself (Planchet) 
and twenty other thousand livres, still in double-louis, on account of 
D’Artagnan. D’Artagnan placed each of the twenty thousand francs in a 
bag, and weighing a bag in each hand,—* This money is very embarrassing, 
my dear Planchet,” said he. “ Do you know this weighs thirty pounds ?” 

“Bah! your horse will carry that like a feather.” 

D’Artagnan shook his head. ‘“ Don’t tell such things to me, Planchet : 
a horse overloaded with thirty pounds, in addition to the rider and his- 
portmanteau, cannot cross a river so easily—cannot leap over a wall or 
a ditch so lightly ; and the horse failing, the horseman fails. It is true 
that you, Planchet, who have served in the infantry, may not be aware of 
all that.” 

“Then what is to be done, monsieur?” said Planchet, greatly embar- 
rassed. . 

“Listen to me,” said D’Artagnan. “1] will pay my army on its return 
home. Keep my half of twenty thousand. livres, which you can make uge 
of during that time.” 

“ And my half?” said Planchet, 

“J will take that with me.” 

“Your confidence does me honout,” said Planchet ; “but suppose yo 
should not return ?” 

“That is possible, though not very probable. Then, Planchet, in case I 
should not return—give me a pen; I will make my will.” D’Artagran 
took a pen and some paper, and wrote upon a plain sheet,—“ I, D’Artag- 
nan, possess twenty thousand livres, laid up, sou by sou, during thirty 
years that I have been in the service of his majesty the king of France. 
I leave five thousand to Athos, five thousand to Porthos, and five thousand 
to Aramis, that they may give the said sums in my name and their own 
to my young friend Raoul, Vicomte de Bragelonne. I give the remaining 
five thousand to Planchet, that he may distribute the fifteen thousand 
with less regret among my friends. With which purpose I sign these 
presents.—D’ARTAGNAN.” 

Planchet appeared very curious to know what D’Artagnan had written. 

“ Here,” said the musketeer, “read it.” 

On reading the last lines the tears came into Planchet’s eyes. “ You 
think, then, that I would not have given the money without that ? Then 
I will have none of your five thousand francs.” 

D’Artagnan smiled. “ Accept it, accept it, Planchet ; and in that way 
you will only lose fifteen thousand francs instead of twenty thousand, and 
you will not be tempted to disregard the signature of your master and 
friend, by losing nothing at all.” 

How well that dear Monsieur d’Artagnan was acquainted with the 
hearts of men and grocers! They who have pronounced Don Quixote mad 


geen | 
© ia 


100 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


because he rode out to the conquest of an empire with nobody but Sancho 
his squire, and they who have pronounced Sancho mad because he accom- 
panied his master in his attempt to conquer the said empire,—they cer- 
tainly will have no hesitation in extending the same judgment to D’Artag- 
nan and Planchet. And yet the first passed for one of the most subtle 
Spirits among the astute spirits of the court of France. As to the second, 
he had acquired by good right the reputation of one of the longest heads 
among the grocers of the Rue des Lombards; consequently of Paris, con- 
sequently of France. Now, to consider these two men from the point of 
view in which you would consider other men, and the means by the aid of 
which they contemplated to restore a monarch to his throne, compara- 
tively with other means, the shallowest brains of the country where brains 
are most shallow must have revolted against the presumptuous madness 
of the lieutenant and the stupidity of his associate. Fortunately D’Artag- 
nan was not a man to listen to the idle talk of those around him, or to the 
comments that were made on himself. He had adopted the motto, “Act 
well, and let people talk.” Planchet, on his part, had adopted this, “ Act, 
and say nothing.” It resulted from this, that, according to the custom of 
all superior geniuses, these two men flattered themselves, zutra pectus, 
with being in the right against all who found fault with them. 

Asa commencement, D ’Artagnan set out in the finest of possible weather, 
without a cloud in the heavens—without a cloud on his mind, joyous and 
strong, calm and decided, great in his resolution, and consequently carry- 
ing with him a tenfold dose of that potent fluid which the shocks of mind 
cause to spring from the nerves, and which procure for the human machine 
a force and an influence of which future ages will render, according to all 
obability, an account more arithmetically than we can possibly do at 
He was again, as in times past, in that same road of adventures 
fad led him to Boulogne, and which he was now travelling for the 
itime. Itappeared tohim that he could almost recognise thetrace of his 
n steps upon theroad, and that of his fist upon thedoors of the hostelries ; 
—his memory, always active and present, brought back that youth which 
had not, thirty years before, belied either his great heart or his wrist o. 
steel. Whata rich nature was that of thisman! He had all passions, 
all defects, all weaknesses, and the spirit of contradiction familiar to his 
understanding, changed all these imperfections into corresponding quali- 
ties. D’Artagnan, thanks to his ever active imagination, was afraid of a 
shadow, and ashamed of being afraid, he marched straight up to that 
shadow, and then became extravagant in his bravery, if the danger proved 
to be real. Thus everything in him was emotion, and therefore enjoy- 
ment. He loved the society of others, but never became tired of his own ; 
and more than once, if he could have been heard when he was alone, he 
might have been seen laughing at the jokes he related to himself, or the 
tricks his imagination created just five minutes before exwuz might have 
been looked for. D’Artagnan was not perhaps so gay this time as he 
had been with the perspective of finding some good friends at Calais, in- 
stead of that of joining the ten scamps there ; melancholy, however, did 
not visit him above oncea day, and it was about five visits that he received 
from that sombre deity before he got sight of the sea at Boulogne, and 
then these visits were indeed but short. But when once D ’Artagnan found 
himself near the field of action, all other feeling but that of “confidence 
disappeared never to return. From Boulogne he followed the coast to 
Calais. Calais was the place of general rendezvous, and at Calais he had 
named to each of his recruits the hostelry of “Le Grand peer 


te eee 


DARTAGNAN PREPARES TO TRAVEL. 101 


where living was not extravagant, where sailors messed, and where men 
of the sword, with sheath of leather, be it understood, found lodging, table, 
food, and all the comforts of life, for thirty sous per diem. D’Artagnan 
proposed to himself to take them ‘by surprise 2% flagrante delicto of wan- 
dering life, and to judge by the first appearance if he could reckon upon 
them as trusty companions. 

He arrived at Calais at half-past four in the afternoon, 


CHAPTER XXII. 
D’ARTAGNAN TRAVELS FOR THE HOUSE OF PLANCHET AND COMPANY. 


THE hostelry of “Le Grand Monarque” was situate in a little street 
parallel to the port, without looking out upon the port itself. Some lanes 
cut—as steps cut the two parallels of the ladder—the two great straight lines 
of the port and the street. By these lanes, passengers debouched suddenly 
from the port into the street, from the street on to the port. D’Artagnan, 
arrived at the port, took one of these lanes, and came out in front of the 
hostelry of “ Le Grand Monarque.” The moment was well chosen, and 
might remind D’Artagnan of his start in life at the hostelry of the “ Franc- 
Meunier” at Meung. Some sailors who had been playing at dice had 
knocked up a quarrel, and were threatening each other furiously. The 
host, hostess, and two lads were watching with anxiety the circle of 
these angry gamblers, from the midst of which war seemed ready to break 
forth, bristling with knives and hatchets. The play, nevertheless, was 
continued. A stone bench was occupied by-two men, who appeared 
thence to watch the door ; four tables, placed at the back of the common 
chamber, were occupied by eight other individuals. Neither the men at 
the door, nor those at the tables took any part in the play or the quarrel. 
D’Artagnan recognised his ten men in these cold, indifferent spectators. 
The quarrel went on increasing. Every passion has, like the sea, its tide 
which ascends and descends. Arrived at the climax of passion, one 
sailor overturned the table and the money which was upon it. The table 
fell, and the money rolled about. In an instant all belonging to the 
hostelry threw themselves upon the stakes, and many a piece of silver was 
picked up by people who stole away whilst the sailors were scuffling with 
each other. 

The two men on the bench and the eight at the tables, although they 
seemed perfect strangers to each other, these ten men alone, we say, 
appeared to have agreed to remain impassible amidst the cries of fury 
and the chinking of. money. ‘Two only contented themselves with repuls- 
ing with their feet combatants who came under their table. Two others, 
rather than take part in this disturbance, buried their hands in their 
pockets ; and another two jumped upon the table they occupied, as people 
do to avoid being submerged by overflowing water. 

* Come, come,” said D’Artagnan to himself, not having lost one of the 
details we have related, “this is a very fair gathering— circumspect, calm, 
accustomed to disturbance, acquainted with blows! /Peste/ I have been 
lucky.” 

All at once his attention was called to a particular part of the room. 
The two men who had repulsed the strugglers with their feet, were 
assailed with abuse by the sailors, who had become reconciled. One of 
them half-drunk with passion, and quite drunk with beer, came, in a 
menacing manner, to demand of the shorter of these two sages, by what 


te THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


right he had touched with his foot creatures of the good God, who were 
not dogs. And whilst putting this question, in order to make it more 
direct, he applied his great fist to the nose of D’Artagnan’s recruit. This 
man became pale, without its being to be discerned whether his paleness 
arose from anger or from fear ; seeing which, the sailor concluded it was 
from fear, and raised his fist with the manifest intention of letting it fall 
upon the head of the stranger. But, without the threatened man having 
appeared to move, he dealt the sailor such a severe blow in the stomach 
as sent him rolling and howling to the other side of the room. , At the 
same instant, rallied by the esprit de corps, all the comrades of the con- 
quered man fell upon the conqueror. The latter, with the same coolness 
of which he had given proof, without committing the imprudence of touch- 
ing his arms, took up a beer-pot with a pewter lid, and knocked down two 
or three of his assailants ; then, as he was about to yield to numbers, the 
seven other silent men at the tables, who had not stirred, perceived that 
their cause was at stake, and came to the rescue. At the same time, the 
two indifferent spectators at the door turned round with frowning brows, 
indicating their evident intention of taking the enemy in the rear, if the 
enemy did not cease their aggressions. The host, his helpers, and two 
watchmen who were passing, and who, from curiosity, had penetrated too far 
into the room, were confounded in the tumult and loaded with blows. 
The Parisians hit like Cyclops, with an exsemdle and a tactic delightful 
to behold, At length, obliged to beat'a retreat before numbers, they 
formed an intrenchment behind the great table, which they raised by main 
force ; whilst the two others, arming themselves each with a trestle, so 
that, using it like a great sledge-hammer, they knocked down at a blow 
eight sailors upon whose heads they had brought their monstrous catapult 
in play. The floor was already strewn with wounded, and the room filled 
with cries and dust, when D’Artagnan, satisfied with the test, advanced, 
sword in hand, and striking with the pommel every head that came in his 
way, he uttered a vigorous #o/d2/ which put an instantaneous end to the 
conflict. A great back-flood directly took place from the centre to the 
sides of the room, so that D’Artagnan found himself isolated and domi- 
nator. 

“What is all this about >?” then demanded he of the assembly, with the 
majestic tone of Neptune pronouncing the Quos ego. 

At the very instant, at the first sound of his voice, to carry on the 
Virgilian metaphor, D?Artagnan’s recruits, recognising each his sovereign 
lord, discontinued at the same time their anger, their plank-fighting, and 
trestle blows. On their side, the sailors, seeing that long naked sword, 
that martial air, and the agile arm which came to the rescue of their 
enemies, in the person of a man who seemed accustomed to command, on 
their part, the sailors picked up their wounded and their pitchers. The 
Parisians wiped their brows, and viewed their leader with respect. 
D’Artagnan was loaded with thanks by the host of “ Le Grand Monarque.” 
He received them like a man who knows that nothing is being offered that 
does not belong to him, and then said, till supper was ready he would go and 
walk upon the port. Immediately each of the recruits, who understood 
the summons, took his hat, brushed the dust off his clothes, and followed 
D’Artagnan. But D’Artagnan, whilst observing, examining everything, 
took care not to stop; he directed his course towards the dune, and the ten 
men—surprised at finding themselves going in the track of each other, 
uneasy at seeing on their right, on their left, and behind them, companions 
upon whcm they had not reckoned—followed him, casting furtive glances 


DARTAGNAN ON AIS TRAVELS. 103 


at each other. It was not till he had arrived at the hollow part of the 
deepest dune that D’Artagnan, smiling at seeing their shyness, turned 
towards them, making a friendly sign with his hand. 

“Eh! come, come, messieurs,” said he, “let us not devour each other; 
you are made to live together, to understand each other in all respects, 
and not one to devour another.” 

Instantly all hesitation ceased ; the men breathed as if they had been 
taken out of a coffin, and examined each other complacently. After this 
examination they turned their eyes towards their leader, who had long 
been acquainted with the art of speaking to men of that class, and impro- 
vised the following little speech, pronounced with an energy truly Gascon: 

“ Messieurs, you all know who I am. I have engaged you from know- 
ing you are brave, and from being willing to associate you with me in a 
glorious enterprise. Figure to yourselves that in labouring for me you 
labour for the king. I only warn you that if you allow anything of this 
supposition to appear, I shall be forced to crack your skulls immediately, 
in the manner most convenient to me. You are not ignorant, messieurs, 
that state secrets are like a mortal poison : as long as that poison is in its 
box and the box closed, it is not injurious ; out of the box, it kills. Now 
draw near, and you shall know as much of this secret as I am able to tell 
you.” All drewclose to him with an expression of curiosity. ‘“ Approach,” 
continued D’Artagnan, “and let not the bird which passes over our heads, 
the rabbit which sports in the dues, the fish which bounds from the 
waters, hear us. Our business is to learn and to report to monsieur le 
surintendant of the finances to what extent English smuggling is injurious 
to the French merchants. I will enter every place, and will see every- 
thing. We are poor Picard fishermen, thrown upon the coast by a storm. 
It is certain that we must sell fish, neither more nor less, like true fisher- 
men. Only people might guess who we are, and might molest us; it is 
therefore necessary that we should be in a condition to defend ourselves. 
And this is why I have selected men of spirit and courage. We will lead 
a steady life, and we shall not incur much danger, seeing that we have 
behind us a powerful protector, thanks to whom, no embarrassment 
is possible. One thing alone puzzles me; but I hope, after a short ex- 
planation, you will relieve me from that difficulty. The thing which 
puzzles me is taking with me a crew of stupid fishermen, which crew will 
annoy me immensely, whilst if, by. chance, there were among you any who 
have seen the sea——-” 

“Oh! let not that trouble you,” said one of the recruits ; “I was a 
prisoner among the pirates of Tunis three years, and can manceuvre alkcat 
like an admiral.” 

“See,” said D’Artagnan, “what an admirable thing chance is!’ 
D’Artagnan pronounced these words with an indefinable tene of feigned 
bonhomi2, for D’Artagnan knew very well that the victim of pirates was 
an old corsair, and he had engaged him in consequence of that know- 
ledge. But DA’rtagnan never said more than there was occasion for 
saying, in order to leave people in doubt. He paid himself with the ex- 
planation, and welcomed the effect, without appearing to be preoccupied 
with the cause. 

“ And I,” said a second, “I, by chance, had an uncle who directed the 
works of the port of La Rochelle. When quite a child, I played about 
the boats, and I know how to handle an oar or a sail as well as the best 
Ponantais sailor.”—The last did not lie much more than the first, for he 
had rowed on board his majesty’s galleys six years, at Ciotat, Two others 


104 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


were more frank : they confessed honestly that they had served on board a 
vessel as soldiers on punishment, and did not blush at it. D?’Artagnan found 
himself, then, the leader often men of war and four sailors, having at oncea 
land army andasea force, which would have carried the pride of Planchet to 
its height, if Planchet had known the details. 

Nothing was now left but the general orders, and D’Artagnan gave 
them with precision. He enjoined his men to be ready to set out for the 
Hague, some following the coast which leads to Breskens, others the road 
to Antwerp. The rendezvous was given, by calculating each day’s march, 
at fifteen days from that time, upon the chief place at the Hague. D’Ar- 
tagnan recommended his men to go in couples, as they liked best, from 
sympathy. He himself selected from among those with the least hanging 
look, two guards whom he had formerly known, and whose only faults were 
being drunkards and gamblers. These men had not entirely lost all ideas 
of civilization, and under proper habiliments their hearts would have re- 
newed their beatings. D’Artagnan, not to create any jealousy to the others, 
made the rest go forward. He kept his two selected ones, clothed them 
from his own kit, and set out with them. It was to these two, whom he 
seemed to honour with an absolute confidence, that D’Artagnan imparted 
a false confidence, destined to secure the success of his expedition. He 
confessed to them that the object was not to learn to what extent the 
French merchants were injured by English smuggling, but to learn how far 
French smuggling could annoy English trade. ‘These men appeared con- 
vinced ; they were effectively so. D’Artagnan was quite sure that at the 
first debauch, when thoroughly drunk, one of the two would divulge the 
secret to the whole band. His play appeared infallible. 

A fortnight after all we have said had taken place at Calais, the whole 
troop assembled at the Hague. Then D’Artagnan perceived that all his 
men, with remarkable intelligence, had already travestied themselves into 
sailors, more or less ill-treated by the sea. D’Artagnan left them to sleep 
ina cabin in Newkerke Street, whilst he lodged comfortably upon the Grand 
Canal. He learned that the king of England had come back to his old 
ally William II. of Nassau, stadtholder of Holland. He learned also that 
the refusal of Louis XIV. had a little cooled the protection afforded him 
up to that time, and in consequence he had gone to reside in alittle village 
house at Scheveningen, situated in the dumes, on the seashore, about a 
league fromthe Hague. There, it was said, the unfortunate banished 
king consoled himself in his exile, by looking, with the melancholy peculiar 
to the princes ofhis race, at that immense North Sea, which separated him 
from his England, as it had formerly separated Mary Stuart from France. 
There, behind the trees of the beautiful wood of Scheveningen, on the 
fine sand upon which grows the golden broom of the dune, Charles II. 
vegetated as it did, more unfortunate than it, for he had life and thought, 
and he hoped and despaired by turns. 

D’Artagnan went once as far as Scheveningen, in order to be certain 
that all was true that was said of the king. He beheld Charles II., pensive 
and alone, coming out of a little door opening into the wood, and walking 
on the beach in the setting sun, without even attracting the attention of 
the fishermen who, on their return in the evening, drew, like the ancient 
mariners of the Archipelago, their barks up upon the sand of the shore. 
D’Artagnan recognised the king ; he saw him fix his melancholy look upon 
the immense extent of the waters, and absorb upon his pale countenance 
the red rays of the sun already sloped by the black line of the horizon. 
Then Charles returned to his isolated abode, still alone, still slow and sad, 


LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
URBANA 


LA. SEAUCE oe 


ro 


GENERAL MONK. 


a 


DARTAGNAN ON HIS TRAVELS, 1G5 


amusing himself with making the friable and moving sand creak beneath 
his feet. -That very evening D’Artagnan hired for a thousand livres a 
fishing-boat worth four thousand. He paid the thousand livres down, and 
deposited the three thousand with a Burgomaster, after which he em- 
barked without their being seen, and in a dark night, the ten men who 
formed his land army ; and with the rising tide, at three o’clock in the 
morning, he got into the open sea, manceuvring ostensibly with the four 
others, and depending upon the science of his galley slave as upon that of 
the first pilot of the port. 


ee 


CHAPTER» XXIII. 


IN WHICH THE AUTHOR, VERY UNWILLINGLY, IS FORCED TO DO A LITTLE 
HISTORY. 


WHILST kings and men were thus occupied with England, which governed 
itself quite alone, and which, it must be said to its praise, had never been 
so badly governed, a man upon whom God had fixed his eye, and placed 
his finger, a man predestined to write his name in brilliant letters in the 
book of history, was pursuing in the face of the world a work full of 
mystery and audacity. He went on, and no one knew whither he meant togo, 
although not only England, but France, but Europe, watched him marching 
with a firm step and loftyhead. All that was known of this man we are 
about to tell. Monk had just declared for the liberty of the Rump parlia- 
ment, a parliament which General Lambert, imitating Cromwell, whose 
lieutenant he had been, had just blocked up so closely, in order to bring 
it to his will, that no member, during all the blockade, was able to go out, 
and only one, Peter Wentworth, had been able to get in. Lambert and 
Monk—everything was resumed under these two men ; the first repre- 
senting military despotism, the second representing pure republicanism. 
These men were the two sole political representatives of that revolution in 
which Charles I. had at first lost his crown, and afterwards his head. As 
regarded Lambert, he did not dissemble his views ; he sought to establish 
a military government, and to be himself the head of that government. 
Monk, a rigid republican, some said, wished to maintain the Rump 
parliament, that visible representation, although degenerated, of the re- 
public. Monk, artful and ambitious, said others, wished simply to make 
of this parliament, which he affected to protect, a solid step by which to 
mount the throne which Cromwell had made empty, but upon which he 
had never dared to take his seat. Thus Lambert by persecuting the par- 
liament, and Monk by declaring for it, had mutually proclaimed themselves 
enemies of each other. Monk and Lambert, therefore, had at first thought 
of creating anarmy each forhimself : Monk in Scotland, where were the Pres- 
byterians and the royalists, that is to to say, the malcontents ; Lambert in 
London, where was found, as is always the case, the strongest opposition 
against the power which it had beneath its eyes. Monk had pacified 
Scotland, he had there formed for himself an army, and found an asylum. 
The one watched the other. Monk knew that the day was not yet come, 
the day marked by the Lord for a great change; his sword, therefore, 
appeared glued to the sheath. Inexpugnablein his wild and mountainous 
Scotland, an absolute general, king of an army of eleven thousand old 
soldiers, whom he had more than once led on to victory ; as well informed, 
nay, even better, of the affairs of London, than Lambert, who held garri- 
son in the city,—such was the position of Monk, when, at a hundred 


106 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


leagues from London, hedeclared himself for the parliament. Lambert, 
on the contrary, as’ we have said, lived in the capital. That was the centre 
of all his operations, and he there collected around him all his friends, and 
all the lower class of the people, eternally inclined to cherish the enemies 
of constituted power. It was then in London that Lambert learnt the 
support that, from the frontiers of Scotland, Monk lent to the parliament. 
He judged there was no time to be lost, and that the Tweed was not so far 
distant from the Thames that an army ‘could not march from one river to 
the other, particularly when it was well commanded. He knew, besides, 
that as fast as the soldiers of Monk penetrated into England, they would 
form on their route that ball of snow, the emblem of the globe of fortune, 
which is for the ambitious nothing buta step growing unceasingly higher 
to conduct him to his object. He got together, then, his army, formidable 
at the same time for its composition and its numbers, and hastened 
to meet Monk, who, on his part, like a prudent navigator sailing amidst 
rocks, advanced by very short marches, his nose to the wind, mpshiees to 
the reports and scenting the air which came from London. 

The two armies came in sight of each other near Newcastle ; Licmbsers 
arriving first, encamped in the city itself Monk, always circumspect, 
stopped where he was, and placed his general quarters at Coldstream, on 
the Tweed. The sight of Lambert spread joy through the army of Monk, 
whilst, on the contrary, the sight of Monk threw disorder into the army of 
Lambert. It might have been believed that these intrepid warriors, who 
had made such a noise in the streets of London, had set out with the hopes 
of meeting no one, and that now, seeing that they had met an army, and 
that that army hoisted before them not only a standard, but still further, a 
cause and a principle,—it might have been believed, we say, that these 
intrepid warriors had begun to reflect that they were less good republicans 
than the soldiers of Monk, since the latter supported the parliament ; 
whilst Lambert supported nothing, not even himself. As to Monk, if he 
had had to reflect, or if he did reflect, it must have been after asad fashion, 
for history relates—and that modest dame, it is well known, never lies,— 
for history relates, that the day of his arrival at Coldstream search was 
made in vain throughout the place for a single sheep. 

If Monk had commanded an English army, that was enough to have 
brought about a general desertion. But it is not with the Scotch as it is 
with the English, to whom that fluid flesh whichis called blood is aparamount 
necessity ; the Scotch, a poor and sober race, live upon a little barley 
crushed between two ‘stones, diluted with the water of the fountain, and 
cooked upon another stone, heated. The Scotch, their distribution of 
barley being made, cared very little whether there was or was not any 
meat in Coldstream. Monk, little accustomed to barley-cakes, was hungry, 
and his staff, at least as hungry as himself, looked with anxiety to the right 
and left, to know what was being got ready for supper. Monk ordered 
search to be made ; his scouts had on arriving in the place found it 
deserted and the cupboards empty ; upon butchers and bakers it was of 
no use depending in Coldstream. The smallest morsel of bread, then, 
could not be found for the general’s table. 

As accounts succeeded each other, all equally unsatisfactory, Monk, 
seeing terror and discouragement upon every face, declared that he was 
not hungry ; ; besides, they should eat on the morrow, since Lambert was 
there probably with the intention of giving battle, and ‘consequently to give 
up his provisions, if he were forced in Newcastle, or to deliver the soldiers 
of Monk from hunger for ever if he were conquered. ‘This consolation 


HISTORICAL. 107 


was not efficacious but upon a very small number ; but of what importance 
was it to Monk, for Monk was very absolute, under the appearance of the 
most perfect mildness? Every one, therefore, was obliged to be satisfied, 
or at least to appear so. Monk, quite as hungry as his people, but affect- 
ing perfect indifference for the absent mutton, cut a fragment of tobacco, 
half an inch long, from the carotte of a sergeant who formed part of his 
suite, and began to masticate the said fragment, assuring his lieutenants 
that hunger was a chimera, and that, besides, people were never hungry 
when they had anything to chew. This pleasantry satisfied some of those 
who had resisted Monk’s first deduction from the neighbourhood of 
Lambert’s army ; the number of the dissentients diminished then greatly ; 
the guard took their posts, the patrols began, and the general continued 
his frugal repast beneath his open tent. 

Between his camp and that of the enemy stood an old abbey, of which, 
at the present day, there only remain some ruins, but which then was in 
existence, and was called Newcastle Abbey. It was built upon a vast site, 
independent at once of the plain and of the river, because it was almost a 
marsh fed by springs and kept up by rains. Nevertheless, in the midst of 
these strips of water, covered with long grass, rushes, and reeds, were seen 
elevated solid spots of ground, consecrated formerly to the kitchen-garden, 
the park, the pleasure-gardens, and other dependencies of the abbey, like 
one of those great sea-spiders, whose body is round, whilst the claws go 
diverging round from this circumference. The kitchen-garden, one of the 
longest claws of the abbey, extended to the camp of Monk. Unfortunately 
it was, as we have said, early in June, and the kitchen-garden, being 
abandoned, offered no resources. Monk had ordered this spot to be 
guarded, as most subject to surprises. The fires. of the enemy’s general 
were plainly to be perceived on the other side of the abbey. But between 
these fires and the abbey extended the Tweed, unfolding its luminous 
scales beneath the thick shade of tall green oaks. Monk was perfectly 
well acquainted with this position, Newcastle and its environs having 
already more than once been his head-quarters. He knew that by day his 
enemy might without doubt throw a few éc/azreurs into these ruins and 
promote a skirmish, but that by night he would take care to abstain from 
such arisk. He felt himself, therefore, in security. Thus his soldiers saw 
him, after what he boastingly called his supper—that is to say, after the 
exercise of mastication reported by us at the commencement of this chapter 
—like Napoleon on the eve of Austerlitz, sleeping seated in his rush chair, 
half beneath the light of his lamp, half beneath the reflection of the moon, 
commencing its ascent into the heavens, which denoted that it was nearly 
half-past nine in the evening. All at once Monk was roused from his half- 
sleep, factitious perhaps, by a troop of soldiers, who came with joyous 
cries, and kicked the poles of his tent with a humming noise as if on pur- 
pose to wake him. There was no need of so much noise ; the general 
opened his eyes quickly. 

“Well, my children, what is going on now?” asked the general. 

“ General !” replied several voices at once, “ General! you shall have 
some, supper.” 

“I have had my supper, gentlemen,” replied he quietly, “and was com- 


fortably digesting it, as you see. But come in, and tell me what brings 
you hither.” 


** Good news, general.” 
“Bah! Has Lambert sent us word that he will fight to-morrow ?” 


“No; but we have just captured a fishing-boat conveying fish to 
Newcastle,” 


108 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“And you have done very wrong, my friends. These gentlemen from 
‘London are delicate, they smack of their first service ; you will put them 
sadly out of humour this evening, and to-morrow they will be pitiless. It 
would really be in good taste to send back to Lambert both his fish and 
his fishermen, unless——” and the general reflected an instant. 

“Tell me,” continued he, “‘ what are these fishermen,-if you please ?” 

“Some Picard seamen who were fishing on the coasts of France or 
Holland, and who have been thrown upon ours by a gale of wind.” 

“Do any-among them speak our language ?” 

_“ The leader spoke some few words of English.” 

The mistrust of the general was awakened in proportion as fresh infor- 
mation reached him. ‘“ That is well,” said he, ‘‘I wish to see these men ; 
bring them to me.” 

An officer immediately went to fetch them. 

“How many are there of them ?” continued Monk ; “and what is their 
vessel ?” 

“ There are ten or twelve of them, general, and they were aboard of a 
kind of chasse-marée, as it is called—Dutch-built, apparently.” 

“And you say they were carrying fish to Lambert’s camp ?” 

“Yes, general, and they seem to have had good luck in their fishing.” 

“tfumph! We shall see that,” said Monk. 

At this moment the officer returned, bringing the leader of the fishermen 
with him. He was a man from fifty to fifty-five years old, but good-looking 
for his age. He was of middle height, and wore a justau-corps of coarse 
wool, a cap pulled down over his eyes, a cutlass hung from his belt, and he 
walked with the hesitation peculiar to sailors, who, never knowing, thanks 
to the movement of the vessel, whether their foot will be placed upon the 
plank or upon nothing, give to every one of their steps a fall as firm as if 
they were driving a pile. Monk, with an acute and penetrating look, 
examined the fisherman for some time, while the latter smiled, with that 
smile, half cunning, half silly, peculiar to French peasants. 

“Do you speak English ?”? asked Monk, in excellent French. 

“ Ah! but badly, my lord,” replied the fisherman. 

This reply was made much more with the lively and sharp accentuation 
of the people beyond the Loire, than with the slightly drawling accent of 
the countries on the west and north of France. 

“ But you do speak it ?” persisted Monk, in order to examine this accent 
once more. 

“Eh! we men of the sea,” replied the fisherman, “speak a little of all 
languages.” 

“Then you are a sea-fisherman ?” 

““T am at present, my lord—a fisherman, and a famous fisherman too. 
I have taken a barbel that weighs at least thirty pounds, and more than | 
fifty mullets ; I have also some little whitings that will fry beautifully.” 

“You appear to me to have fished more frequently in the Gulf of Gascony — 
than in the Channel,” said Monk, smiling. 

“Well, I am from the south; but does that prevent me from being a 


good fisherman, my lord ?” 
“Oh! not at all; I will buy your fish. And now speak frankly: for 
whom did you destine them ?” : 
“ My lord, I will conceal nothing from you. J was going to Newcastle, * 
following the coast, when a party of horsemen who were passing along in 
an opposite direction made a sign to my barque to turn back to your 
honour’s camp, under penalty of a discharge of musketry. As I was no; 


FAISTORICAL, 109 


armed for fighting,” added the fisherman, smiling, “I was forced to sub- 
mit.” . 

“ And why did you go to Lambert’s camp in preference to mine ” 

** My lord, I will be frank ; will your lordship permit me ?” 

“Yes, and even, if there be occasion, shall command you to be so.” 

“Well, my lord, I was going to M. Lambert’s camp because those 
gentlemen from the city pay well—whilst your Scotchmen, Puritans, Pres- 
byterians, Covenanters, or whatever you choose to call them, eat but little, 
and pay for nothing.” 

Monk shrugged his shoulders, without, however, being able to refrain 
from smiling at the same time. ‘“ How is it that, being from the south, you 
come to fish on our coasts ?” 

“Because I have been fool enough to marry in Picardy.” 

“Ves ; but even Picardy is not England.” 

“* My lord, man shoves his boat into the sea, but God and the wind do 
the rest, and drive the boat where they please.” 

“You had, then, no intention of landing on our coasts ?” 

“ Never.” 

“‘ And what route were you steering °” 

“We were returning from Ostend, where some mackerel have been seen 
already, when a sharp wind from the south drove us from our course ; then, 
seeing that it was useless to struggle against it, we let it drive us. It then 
became necessary, not to lose our fish, which were good, to go and sell 
them at the nearest English port, and that was Newcastle. We were told 
the opportunity was good, as there was an increase of population in the 
camp, an increase of population in the city ; both we were told were full of 
gentlemen, very rich and very hungry. So we steered our course towards 
Newcastle.” 

“And your companions, where are they ?” 

“Oh! my companions have remained on board ; they are sailors with- 
out the least instruction.” 

“ Whilst you—— ?” said Monk. 

“ Who, I?” said the datron, laughing ; “I have sailed about with my 
father ; and I know what is called a sou, a crown, a pistole, a louis, and a 
double-lous, in all the languages of Europe: my crew therefore listen to 
me as they would to an oracle, and obey me as if I were an admiral.” 

“Then it was you who preferred M. Lambert as the best customer ?” 

“Ves, certainly. And, to be frank, my lord, was I wrong ?” 

“You will see that by-and-by.” 

“ At all events, my lord, if there is a fault, the fault is mine; and my 
comrades should not be dealt hardly with on that account.” 

“This is decidedly an intelligent, sharp fellow,” thought Monk. Then, 
after a few minutes’ silence employed in scrutinising the fisherman,—“ You 
come from Ostend, did you not say?” asked the general. 

“Yes, my lord, straight as a line.” 

“You have then heard speak of the affairs of the day; for I have no 
doubt that both in France and Holland they excite interest. What is he 
doing who calls himself king of England ?” 

“Oh, my lord !” cried the fisherman, with loud and expansive frankness, 
“that is a lucky question, and you could not put it to anybody better than 
to me, for in truth I can make you a famous reply. Imagine, my lord, 
that when putting into Ostend, to sell the few mackerel we had caught, I 
saw the ex-king walking on the dunes, waiting for his horses which were 
to take him to the Hague. He is a rather tall, pale man, with black hair, 


Bore one x? = 


fo THE VICOMTE DE BRACELONNE. 


and somewhat hard-featured. He looks ill, and I don’t think the air of 
Holland agrees with him.” 

Monk followed with the greatest attention the rapid, heightened, and 
diffuse conversation of the fisherman, in a language which was not his 
own, but which, as we have said, he spoke with great facility. The fisher- 
man, on his part, employed sometimes a French word, sometimes an 
English word, and sometimes a word which appeared not to belong to any 
language, but was, in truth, pure Gascon. Fortunately his eyes spoke for 
him, and that so eloquently, that it was possible to lose a word from his 
mouth, but not a single intention from his eyes. The general appeared 
more and more satisfied with his examination. ‘“ You must have heard 
that this ex-king, as you call him, was going to the Hague for some pur- 
pose ?” 

“Oh, yes,” said the fisherman, “I heard that.” 

“And what was his purpose ?” 

“* Always the same,” said the fisherman. ‘ Must he not always enter- 
tain the fixed idea of returning to England ?” 

“That is true,” said Monk, pensively. 

“ Without reckoning,” added the fisherman, “ that the stadtholder—you 
know, my lord, William II.?——” 

SEV blots 

“He will assist him with all his power.” 

** Ah! did you hear that said ?” 

* No, but I think so.” 

“You are quite a politician, apparently,” said Monk. 

“Why, we sailors, my lord, who are accustomed to study the water and 
the air—that is to say, the two most mobile things in the world—are 
seldom deceived as to the rest.” 

“ Now then,” said Monk, changing the conversation, “ I am told you are 
going to provision us.” 

“‘] will do my best, my lord.” 

“Tfow much do you ask for your fish, in the first place ?” 

‘Not such a fool as to name a price, my lord.” 

“Why not ?” “Because my fish is yours.” 

“ By what right ?” 

“By that of the strongest.” 

‘But my intention is to pay you for it.” 

“That is very generous of you, my lord.” 

“Is it worth & 

** My lord, I fix no price.” 

“What do you ask, then ?” 

“T only ask to be permitted to go away.” 

“* Where ?—to General Lambert’s camp ?” 

“1! cried the fisherman ; “what should I go to Newcastle for, now I 
have no longer any fish ?” ’ 

“At all events, listen to me.” 

“T do, my lord.” 

“T will give you counsel.” 

“How, my lord ?—pay me and give me good counsel likewise? You 
overwhelm me, my lord.” 

Monk looked more earnestly than ever at the fisherman, of whom he > 
still appeared to entertain some suspicion. “ Yes, I will pay you, and give 
you a piece of advice ; for the two things are connected. If you return, 
then, to General Lambert 4 


HISTORICAL, III 


The fisherman made a movement of his head and shoulders, which 
signified, “If he persist in it, 1 won’t contradict him.” 

“Do not cross the marsh,” continued Monk ; “you will have money in 
your pocket, and there are in the marsh some Scotch ambuscaders I have 
placed there. Those people are very intractable ; they understand but 
very little of the language which you speak, although it appears to me to 
be composed of three languages. They might take from you what I had 
given you, and, on your return to your country, you would not fail to say 
that General Monk has two hands, the one Scotch, and the other English; 
and that he takes back with the Scotch hand what he has given with the 
English hand.” 

“Oh ! general, I will go where you like, be sure of that,” said the fisher- 
man, with a fear too expressive not to be exaggerated. “I only wish to 
remain here, if you will allow me to remain.” 

“T readily believe you,” said Monk, with an imperceptible smile, “ but 
I cannot, nevertheless, keep you in my tent.” 

“JT have no such wish, my lord, and desire only that your lordship 
should point out where you will have me posted. Do not trouble yourself 
about us—with us a night soon passes away.” 

* You shall be conducted to your barque.” 

* As your lordship pleases. Only, if your lordship would allow me to 
be taken back by a carpenter, I should be extremely grateful.” 

“Why so?” 

“ Because the gentlemen of your army, in dragging my boat up the river 
with a cable pulled by their horses, have battered it a little upon the rocks 
of the shore, so that I have at least two feet of water in my hold, my lord.” 

“The greater reason why you should watch your boat, I think.” 

“My lord, 1 am quite at your orders,” said the fisherman. “I will empty 
my baskets where you wish ; then you will pay me, if you please to do so; 
and you will send me away, if it appears right to you. You see I am very 
easily managed and pleased, my lord.” 

“Come, come, you are a very good sort of a fellow,” said Monk, whose 
scrutinising glance had not been able to find a single shade in the limpid eye 
of the fisherman. ‘“ Holloa, Digby !” An aide-de-camp appeared. “ You 
will conduct this good fellow and his companions to the little tents of the 
canteens, in front of the marshes, so that they will be near their barque, 
and yet not sleep on board to-night.—What is the matter, Spithead ?” 

Spithead was the sergeant from whom Monk had borrowed a piece of 
tobacco for his supper. Spithead having entered the general’s tent with- 
out being sent for, had drawn this question from Monk. 

“ My lord,” said he, ““a French gentleman has just presented himself at 
the outposts, and asks to speak to your honour.” 

All this was said, be it understood, in English ; but, notwithstanding, it 
produced a slight emotion on the fisherman, which Monk, occupied with 
his sergeant, did not remark. 

“Who is the gentleman ?” asked Monk. 

* My lord,” replied Spithead, “he told it me; but those devils of French 
names are so difficult to be pronounced by a Scotch throat, that I could 
not retain it. I believe, however, from what the guards say, that it is the 
same gentleman who presented himself yesterday at the halt, and whom 
your honour would not receive.” 

“ That is true ; I was holding a council of officers.” 

* Will your honour give any orders respecting this gentleman 2” 

“ Yes, let him be brought here.” 


112 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE 


“ Must we take any precautions ?” 

“ Such as what ?” 

“‘ Binding his eyes, for instance.” 

“To what purpose? He can only see what I desire should be seen ; 
that is to say, that I have around me eleven thousand brave men, who 
ask no better than to have their throats cut in honour of the parliament of 
Scotland and England.” 

“ And this man, my lord ?” said Spithead, pointing to the fisherman, who, 
during this conversation, had remained standing and motionless, like a 
man who sees but does not understand. 

“ Ah! that is true,” said Monk. Then turning towards the fisherman, 
—‘“T] shall see you again, my brave fellow,” said he; ‘“‘I have chosen you 
a lodging. Digby, take him to it. Fear nothing: your money shall be 
sent to you presently.” 

“ Thank you, my lord,” said the fisherman, and, after having bowed, he 
left the tent, accompanied by Digby. Before he had gone a hundred paces 
he found his companions, who were whispering with a volubility which did 
not seem exempt from inquietude ; but he made them a sign which seemed 
to reassure them. “ fo/d, you fellows !” said the datron, “ come this way. . 
- His lordship, General Monk, has the generosity to pay us for our fish, and 
the goodness to give us hospitality for to-night.” 

The fishermen gathered round their leader, and, conducted by Digby, 
the little troop proceeded towards the canteens, the post, as may be re- 
membered, which had been assigned them. As they went along in the 
dark, the fishermen passed close to the guards who were conducting the 
French gentleman to General Monk. This gentleman was on horseback 
and enveloped in a large cloak, which prevented the patron from seeing 
him, however great his curiosity might be. As to the gentleman, ignorant 
that he was elbowing compatriots, he did not pay any attention to the 
little troop. 

The aide-de-camp installed his guests in a tolerably comfortable tent, 
from which was dislodged an Irish canteen-woman, who went, with her 
six children, to sleep where she could. A large fire was burning in front of 
this tent, and threw its purple light over the grassy pools of the marsh, 
rippled by a fresh breeze. The installation made, the aide-de-camp wished 
the fishermen good-night, calling to their notice that they might see from 
the door of the tent the masts of their barque, which was tossing gently 
on the Tweed, a proof that it hadnot yet sunk. The sight of this appeared 
to delight the leader of the fishermen infinitely. 


CHAPTER . XXIV. 
THE TREASURE. 


THE French gentleman whom Spithead had announced to Monk, and who 
had passed, so closely wrapped in his cloak, by the fishermen who left the 
general’s tent five minutes before he entered it,—the French gentleman 
passed through the various posts without even casting his eyes around him, 
for fear of appearing indiscreet. As the order had been given, he was 
conducted to the tent of the general. The gentleman was left alone in 
the sort of antechamber in front of the principal body of the tent, where 
heawaited Monk, who only delayed till hehad heard the report of his people, 
and observed through the opening in the canvas the countenance of the 
person who solicited an audience. Without doubt the report of those who 


THE TREASURE. 113 


haa accompanied the French gentleman established the discretion with 
which he was conducted ; forthe first impression the stranger received of the 
welcome made him by the general was more favourable than he could 
have expected at such a moment, and on the part of so suspicious a man. 
Nevertheless, according to his custom, when Monk found himself in the 
pesence of a stranger, he fixed upon him his penetrating eyes, which scru- 
tiny, the stranger, on his part, sustained without embarrassment or notice. 
At the end of a few seconds, the general made agesture with his hand and 
head in sign of attention. 

“My lord,” said the gentleman, in excellent English, “ I have requested 
an interview with your honour, for an affair of importance.” 

“‘ Monsieur,” replied Monk, in French, “ you speak our language well for 
a son of the continent. I ask your pardon—for doubtless the question is 
indiscreet—do you speak French with the same purity °” 

“There is nothing surprising, my lord, in my speaking English tolerably ; 
I resided for some time in England in my youth, and since then I have 
made two voyages to this country.” These words were spoken in French, 
and with a purity of accent that bespoke not only a Frenchman, but a 
Frenchman from the environs of Tours. 

“And what part of England have you resided in, monsieur ?” 

“In my youth, London, my lord ; then, about 1635, I made a pleasure 
trip to Scotland ; and lastly, in 1648, I lived for some time at Newcastle, 
particularly in the convent, the gardens of which are now occupied by 
your army.” 

“‘ Excuse me, monsieur ; but you must comprehend that these questions 
are necessary on my part—do you not ?” 

“It would astonish me, my lord, if they were not made.” 

“Now, then, monsieur, what can I do to serve you? What do you wish ?” 

“ This, my lord ;—but in the first place, are we alone ?” 

“Perfectly so, monsieur, except, of course, the post which guards us.” 
So saying, Monk pulled open the canvas with his hand, and pointed to 
the soldier placed at ten paces at most from the tent, and who, at the first 
call, could have rendered assistance in a second. 

“In that case, my lord,” said the gentleman, in as calma tone as if he had 
been for a length of time in habits of intimacy with his interlocutor, “I 
have made up my mind to address myself to you, because I believe you 
to be an honest man. Indeed, the communication I am about to make to 
you will prove to you the esteem in which I hold you.” 

Monk, astonished at this language, which established between him and 
the French gentleman equality at least, raised his piercing eye to the 
stranger’s face, and with a sensible irony conveyed by the inflexion of his 
voice alone, for not a muscle of his face moved,—“I thank you, monsieur,” 
said he ; “ but, in the first place, whom have I the honour of speaking to?” 

“T sent you my name by your sergeant, my lord.” 

“Excuse him, monsieur, he is a Scotchman,—he could not retain it.” 

“TI am called the Comte de la Fére, monsieur,” said Athos, bowing. 

“The Comte de la Fére?” said Monk, endeavouring to recollect the 
name. ‘‘ Pardon me, monsieur, but this appears to be the first time I have 
ever heard that name. Do you fill any post at the court of France?” 

“None ; I am a simple gentleman.” 

“What dignity ?” 

“ King Charles I. made me a knight of the Garter, and Queen Anne of 
Austria has given me the cordon of the Holy Ghost. These are my only 
dignities.” : 


114 THE VICOMTE DE BRACELONNE. 


“The Garter! the Holy Ghost! Are you a knight of those two orders, 
monsieur ?” i Ves, 

“¢ And on what occasions have such favours been bestowed upon you ?” 

“ For services rendered to their majesties.” 

Monk looked with astonishment at this man, who appeared to him so 
simple and so great at the same time. Then, as if he had renounced en- 
deavouring to penetrate this mystery of a simplicity and grandeur upon 
which the stranger did not seem disposed to give him any other information 
than that which he had already received,—“ Did you present yourself yester- 
day at our advanced posts-?” 

‘And was sent back? Yes, my lord.” 

“‘ Many officers, monsieur, would not permit anybody to enter their camp, 
particularly on the eve of a probable battle. But I differ from my col- 
leagues, and like to leave nothing behind me. Every advice is good to 
me : all danger is sent to me by God, and I weigh it in my hand with 
the energy He has given me. So, yesterday, you were only sent back 
on account of the council I was holding. To-day I am at liberty,—speak.” 

“My lord, you have done so much the better in receiving me, from 
that which I have to say having nothing to do with the battle you are 
about to fight with General Lambert, or with your camp ; and the proof is, 
that I turned away my head that I might not see your men, and closed my 
eyes that I might not count your tents. No, I come to speak to you, my 
lord, on my own account.” . 

“‘ Speak, then, monsieur,” said Monk. 

“Just now,” continued Athos, “I had the honour of telling your lordship 
that I for a long time lived in Newcastle : it was in the time of Charles I., 
and when the king was given up to Cromwell by the Scots.” 

“I know,” said Monk, coldly. 


“T had at that time a large sum in gold, and on the eve of the battle, - 


from a presentiment perhaps of the turn which things would take on the 
morrow, I concealed it in the principal vault of the convent of Newcastle, 
in the tower of which you may see from hence the summit silvered by the 
moon. My treasure has then remained interred there, and I am come to 
entreat your honour to permit me to withdraw it before, perhaps, the battle 
turning that way, a mine or some other war engine may destroy the build- 
ing and scatter my gold, or render it so apparent that thesoldiers will take 
possession of it.” 

Monk was well acquainted with mankind ; he saw in the physiognomy 
of this gentleman all the energy, all the reason, all the circumspection 
possible; he could therefore only attribute to a magnanimous confidence 
the revelation the Frenchman had made him, and he showed himself pro- 
foundly touched by it. 

“Monsieur,” said he, “you have augured justly by me. But is the sum 
worth the trouble to which you expose yourself? Do you even believe 
that it can be in the place where you left it 7 

“Tt is there, monsieur, I do not doubt.” 

“That is a reply to one question ; but to the other. I asked you ifthe 
sum were so large as to lead you to expose yourself thus.” 

“Tt is really large ; yes, my lord, for it is a million I enclosed in two 
barrels.” 

‘A million !” cried Monk, whom this time, in his turn, Athos looked at 
earnestly and long. Monk perceived this, and his mistrust returned. 

“ Here isa man,” said he, “ whois laying a snare forme. So you wish to 
withdraw this money, monsieur,” replied he, “as I understand ?” 


wt 


THE TREASURE. 118 


“Tf you piease, my lerd.” 

“ To-day ?” 

“This very evening, and that on account of the circumstances I have 
named.” 

“ But, monsieur,” objected Monk, “General Lambert is as near the abbey 
where you have to actasIam. Why, then, have you not addressed your- 
self to him ?” 

“* Because, my lord, when one acts in important matters, it is best to con- 
sult one’s instinct before everything. Well, General Lambert does not 
inspire me with so much confidence as you do.” 

“Be it so, monsieur. I will assist you in recovering your money, if, 
however, it can still be there; for that is far from likely. Since 1648 
twelve years have rolled away, and many events have taken place.” 
Monk dwelt upon this point, to see if the French gentleman would seize the 
evasions that were open to him, but Athos did not lift his brows once. 

“Tassure you, my lord,” he said firmly, “that my conviction is, that the 
two barrels have neither changed place nor master.” This reply had re- 
moved one suspicion from the mind of Monk, but it had suggested another. 
Without doubt this Frenchman was some emissary sent to entice into 
error the protector of the parliament ; the gold was nothing but a lure; 
and by the help of this they thought to excite the cupidity of the general. 
This gold might not exist. It was Monk’s business, then, to seize in the 
fact of falsehood and trick, the French gentleman, and to draw from the 
false step itself in which his enemies wished to entrap him, a triumph for 
his renown. When Monk was determined how to act,— 

“Monsieur,” said he to Athos, “without doubt you will do me the honour 
to share my supper this evening ?” 

“Yes, my lord,” replied Athos, bowing ; “for you do me an honour of 
which I feel myself worthy, by the inclination which drew me towards 
you.” 

“Itis so much the more gracious on your part to accept my invitation 
with such frankness, from my cooks being but few and inexpert, and 
from my providers having returned this evening empty-handed ; so that if 
it had not been for a fisherman of your nation who strayed into our camp, 
General Monk would have gone to bed without his supper to-day. I have 
then some fresh fish to offer you, as the vendor assures me.” 

“ My lord, it is principally for the sake of having the honour to pass an 
hour more with you.” 

After this exchange of civilities, during which Monk had lost nothing of 
his circumspection, the supper, or that which was to serve for one, had 
been laid upon a deal table. Monk made a sign to the Comte de la Fére 
to be seated at this table, and took his place opposite to him. A single dish 
filled with boiled fish, set before the two illustrious guests, promised more 
to hungry stomachs than to delicate palates. Whilst supping, that is, while 
eating the fish, washed down with bad ale, Monk got Athos to recount to 
him the last events of the Fronde, the reconciliation of M. de Condé with 
the king, and the probable marriage of the king with the infanta of Spain ; 
but he avoided, as Athos himself avoided it, all allusion to the political 
interests which united, or rather which disunited at this time, England, 
France and Holland. Monk, in this conversation, convinced himself of 
one thing, which he must have remarked at the first words exchanged : 
that was, that he had to do with a man of high distinction. He could not 
be an assassin, and it was repugnant to Monk to believe him to be a spy; 
but there were sufficient fiesse and at the same time meses in Athos to 

—2 


ol Ti 


116 THE VICOMTE DE BRACELONNE., 


lead Monk tc fancy he was a conspirator. When they had quitted table, 
“Vou still believe in your treasure, then, monsieur?” asked Monk. 

“Ves, my lord.” 

“ Seriously.” —— “ Quite seriously.” 

«And you think you can find the place again where it was buried ?” 

‘“ At the first inspection.” 

“Well, monsieur, from curiosity I will accompany you. And it is so 
much the more necessary that I should accompany you, that you would 
find great difficulties in passing through the camp without me or one of 
my lieutenants.” 

“General, I would not suffer you to inconvenience yourself if I did not, 
in fact, stand in need of your company: but, as I recognise that this 
company is not only honourable, but necessary, I accept it.” 

“ Do you desire we should take any people with us?” asked Monk. 

‘“¢ General, I believe that would be useless, if you yourself do not see the 
necessity for it. Two men and a horse will suffice to transport two casks 
on board the felucca which brought me hither.” 

“But it will be necessary to pick, dig, and remove the earth, and split 
stones ; you don’t reckon upon doing this work yourself, monsieur, 
do you ’” 

“General, there is no picking or digging required. The treasure is 
buried in the sepulchral vault of the convent, under a stone in which is 
fixed a large iron ring, and under that a little stair of four steps opens. 
The two casks are there, placed end to end, covered with a coat of plaster 
in the form of a bier. There is besides an inscription, which will enable 
me to recognize the stone; and as I am not willing, in an affair of delicacy 
and confidence, to keep the secret from your honour, here is the inscrip- 
tion :—‘ Hizc pacet venerabilis, Petrus Gulielmus Scott, Canon Honorabd. 
Conventis Novi Castelli. Obitt guartda et decimad Feb. ann. Dom. MCCVIII. 
Regutescat in pace.” 

Monk did not lose a single word. He was astonished either at the 
marvellous duplicity of this man, and the superior style in which he played 
his part, or at the good loyal faith with which he presented his request, in 
a situation in which was concerned a million of money, risked against the 
stab of a poniard, amidst an army that would have considered the theft 
as arestitution. ‘That is well,” said he ; “I will accompany you; and 
the adventure appears to me so wonderful, that I will carry the flambeau 
myself.” And saying these words, he girded on a short sword, placed a 
pistol in his belt, disclosing in this movement, which opened his fourpotnt 
a little, the fine rings of a coat of mail, destined to screen him from the 
first poniard stroke of an assassin. After which he took a Scotch dirk in 
his left hand, and then turning to Athos, “Are you ready, monsieur ?” 
said he.——“ I am.” 

Athos, as if in opposition to what Monk had done, unfastened his 
poniard, which he placed upon the table ; unhooked his sword-belt, which 
he laid close to his poniard ; and, without affectation opening his four- 
point, as if to seek his handkerchief, showed beneath his fine cambric 
shirt his naked breast, without arms, either offensive or defensive. 

“ This is truly a singular man,” said Monk; “he is without any arms ; 
he has an ambuscade placed somewhere yonder.” 

“General,” said he, as if he had divined Monk’s thought, “you wish 
we should be alone ; that is very right, but a great captain ought never 
to expose himself with temerity. It is night, the passage of the march 
™aw present dangers ; be accompanied.” 


THE TREASURE. 117 


“You are right,” replied he, calling Digby. The aide-de-camp appeared. 
“Fifty men, with swords and muskets,” said he, looking at Athos. 

“ That is too few if there is danger, too many if there is not.” 

“I will go alone,” said Monk ; “1 want nobody. Come, monsieur.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 
THE MARCH. 


ATHOS and Monk traversed, in going from the camp towards the Tweed, 
that part of the ground which Digby had traversed with the fishermen 
coming from the Tweed to the camp. ‘The aspect of this place, the 
aspect of the changes man had wrought in it, was of a nature to produce 
a great effect upon a lively and delicate imagination like that of Athos. 
Athos looked at nothing but these desolate spots ; Monk looked at nothing 
but Athos—at Athos, who, with his eyes sometimes directed towards 
heaven, and sometimes towards the earth, sought, thought, and sighed. 
Digby, whom the last orders of the general, and particularly the accent 
with which he had given them, had at first a little excited, Digby followed 
the night-walkers about twenty paces, but the general having turned 
round as if astonished to find his orders had not been obeyed, the aide-de- 
camp perceived his indiscretion, and returned to his tent. He supposed 
that the general wished to make, incognito, one of those reviews of vigi- 
lance which every experienced captain never fails to make on the eve of 
a decisive engagement : he explained to himself the presence of Athos in 
this case as an inferior explains all that is mysterious on the part of his 
leader. Athos might be, and, indeed, in the eyes of Digby, must be, a 
spy, whose information was to enlighten the general. 

At the end of a walk of about ten minutes among the tents and posts, 
which were closer together near the head-quarters, Monk entered upon 
a little causeway which diverged into three branches. That on the left 
led to the river, that in the middle to Newcastle Abbey on the marsh, that 
on the right crossed the first lines of Monk’s camp ; that is to say, the 
lines nearest to Lambert’s army. Beyond the river was an advanced post, 
belonging to Monk’s army, which watched the enemy ; it was composed 
of one hundred and fifty Scots. They had swum across the Tweed, and, 
in case of attack, were to recross it in the same manner, giving the alarm; 
but as there was no post at that spot, and as Lambert’s soldiers were not 
so prompt at taking to the water as Monk’s were, the latter appeared not 
to have much uneasiness on that side. On this side of the river, at about 
five hundred paces from the old abbey, the fishermen had taken up their 
abode amidst a crowd of small tents raised by the soldiers of the neigh- 
bouring clans, who had with them their wives and children. All this 
confusion, seen by the moon’s light, presented a striking coup d’@7l,; the 
half-shade enlarged every detail, and the light, that flatterer which only 
attaches itself to the polished side of things, courted upon each rusty 
musket the point still left intact, and upon every rag of canvas the whitest 
and least sullied part. Monk arrived then with Athos, crossing this spot, 
illumined by a double light, the silver splendour of the moon, and the red 
blaze of the fires at the meeting of the three causeways ; there he stopped, 
and addressing his companion,—“ Monsieur,” said he, “do you know 
your road ?” 

“General, if Iam not mistaken, the middle causeway leads straigit 
to the abbey.” . 


118 | THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“That is right; but we shall want lights to guide us in the vaults.” 
Monk turned round. 

“Ah! I thought Digby was following us!” said he. “So much the 
better ; he will procure us what we want.” 

“Ves, general, there is a man yonder who for some time has been walking 
behind us.” 

“ Digby !” cried Monk, “ Digby ! come here, if you please.” 

But, instead of obeying, the shadow made a motion of surprise, and, 
retreating instead of advancing, it bent down and disappeared along 
the jetty.on the left, directing its course towards the lodging of the 
fishermen. 

“Tt appears not to be Digby,” said Monk. 

Both had followed the shadow which had vanished. But it was not so 
rare a thing for a man to be wandering about at eleven o’clock at night, in 
a camp in which are reposing ten or eleven thousand men, as to give 
Monk and Athos any alarm at his disappearance. 

“As it is so,” said Monk, “and we must have a light, a lantern, a torch, 
or something by which we may see where to set our feet, let us seek 
this light.” 

“ General, the first soldier we meet will light us.” 

“No,” said Monk, in order to discover if there were not any connivance 
between the Comte de la Fére and the fishermen. ‘‘ No, I should prefer 
one of these French sailors who came this evening to sell me their fish. 
They will leave to-morrow, and the secret will be better kept by them ; 
whereas, if a report should be spread in the Scotch army, that treasures 
are to be found in the abbey of Newcastle, my Highlanders will believe 
there is a million concealed beneath every slab; and they will not leave a 
stone upon a stone in the building.” 

“ Do as you think best, general,” replied Athos, in so natural a tone of 
voice, as made it evident that soldier or fisherman was the same to him, 
and that he had no preference. 

Monk approached the causeway behind which had disappeared the 
person he had taken for Digby, and met a patrol who, making the tour of 
the tents, was going towards head-quarters ; he was stopped with his 
companion, gave the pass-word, and went on. A soldier, roused hy the 
noise, unrolled his plaid, and looked up to see what was going forward. 
“ Ask him,” said Monk to Athos, ‘where the fishermen are ; if I were 
to speak to him, he would know me.” 

Athos went up to the soldier, who pointed out the tent to him ; imme- 
diately Monk and Athos turned towards it. It appeared to the general 
that at the moment they came up, a shadow, like to that they had already 
seen, glided into this tent ; but, on drawing nearer, he perceived he must 
have been mistaken, for all of them were asleep pile méle, and nothing 
was seen but arms and legs joined, crossed, and mixed. Athos, fearing he 
should be suspected of connivance with some of his compatriots, remained 
outside the tent. 

“Holé!” said Monk, in French, “ wake up here.” Two or three of the 
sleepers got up. “I want a man to light me,” continued Monk. 

“Your honour may depend upon us,” said a voice which made Athos 
start. “Where do you wish us to go ?” 

“You shall see. A light ! come, quickly !” 

“Yes, your honour. Does it please your honour that I should accom- 
pany your” 


“You or another, it is of very little consequence, provided I have a light.” 


THE MARCH. 119 


“Tt is strange !” thought Athos ; “what a singular voice that man has!” 

“Some fire, you sirs !” cried the fisherman ; “come, make haste !” 

Then addressing in a low voice his companion nearest to him :—“ Get 
a light, Menneville,” said he, “and hold yourself ready for anything.” 

One of the fishermen struck light from a stone, set fire to some tinder, 
and by the aid of a match lit a lantern. The light immediately spread all 
over the tent.” 

“Are you ready, monsieur !” said Monk to Athos, who had turned 
away, not to expose his face to the light. 

“Yes, general,” replied he. 

“Ah! the French gentleman!” said the leader of the fishermen to 
himself. “ Pesfe/ I have a great mind to charge you with the commis- 
sion, Menneville ; he may know me. Light! light!” This dialogue was’ 
pronounced at the back of the tent, and in so low a voice that Monk could 
not hear a syllable of it ; he was, besides, talking with Athos, Menneville 
got himself ready in the meantime, or rather received the orders of his 
leader. 

“ Well ?” said Monk. 

“I am ready, general,” said the fisherman. 

Monk, Athos, and the fisherman left the tent. 

“Tt is impossible !” thought Athos. “What dream could put that into 
my head ?” 

“ Go forward ; follow the middle causeway, and stretch out your legs,’ 
said Monk to the fisherman. 

They were not twenty paces on their way, when the same shadow that 
had appeared to enter the tent came out of it again, crawled along as far 
as the piles, and, protected by that sort of parapet placed along the cause- 
way, carefully observed the march of the general. All three disappeared 
in the night haze. They were walking towards Newcastle, the white 
stones of which appeared to them like sepulchres. After standing for a 
few seconds under the porch, they penetrated into the interior. The door 
had been broken open by hatchets. A post of four men slept in safety in 
a corner ; sO certain were they that the attack would not take place on 
that side. 

“ Will not these men be in your way ?” said Monk to Athos. 

“On the contrary, monsieur, they will assist in rolling out the barrels, 
if your honour will permit them.” | 

“You are right.” 

The post, however fast asleep, roused up at the first steps of the three 
visitors amongst the briars and grass that invaded the porch. Monk 
gave the pass-word, and penetrated into the interior of the convent, 
preceded by the light. He walked last, watching even the least move- 
ment of Athos, his naked dirk in his sleeve, and ready to plunge it into 
the reins of the gentleman at the first suspicious gesture he should see him 
make. But Athos, with a firm and sure step, traversed the chambers and 
courts. Not a door, not a window was left in this building. The doors 
had been burnt, some upon the spot, and the charcoal of them was still 
jagged with the action of the fire, which had gone out of itself, powerless, 
no doubt, to get to the heart of those massive joints. of oak fastened to- 
gether byiron nails. As to the windows, all the panes having been broken, 
birds of darkness, alarmed by the torch, flew away through the holes of 
them. At the same time, gigantic bats began to trace their vast, silent 
circles around the intruders, whilst their shadows appeared trembling upon 
the lofty stone walls in the light projected by the torch. Monk concluded 


120 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


there could be no man in the convent, since wild beasts and birds were 
there still, and fled away at his approach. After having passed the rubbish, 
and torn away more than one branch of ivy that had made itself a guardian 
for the solitude, Athos arrived at the vaults situated beneath the great hall, 
but the entrance of which was from the chapel. There he stopped. “ Here 
we are, general,” said he. 

“This, then, is the slab ?” 

6c Ves,” 

. “Ay, and here is the ring—but the ring is sealed into the stone.” 

“We must have a lever.” 

“That’s a thing very easy to find.” 

Whilst looking round them, Athos and Monk perceived a little ash of 
about three inches in diameter, which had shot up in an angle of the wall, 
reaching to a window, which its branches darkened. 

“Have you a knife ?” said Monk to the fisherman. 

“Yes, monsieur” 

“Cut down this tree, then.” 

The fisherman obeyed, but not without notching his cutlass. When the 
ash was cut and fashioned into the shape of a lever, the three men pene- - 
trated into the vault. 

‘Stop where you are,” said Monk to the fisherman. ‘“ We are going to 
dig up some powder ; your light may be dangerous.” 

The man drew back in a sort of terror, and faithfully kept to the post 
assigned him, whilst Monk and Athos turned behind a column at the foot 
of which, through a spiracle, penetrated a moonbeam, reflected exactly by 
the stone of which the Comte de la Fére had come so far in search. 

“This is it,” said Athos, pointing out to the general the Latin inscription. 

vies” said Monk. 

T hen, as if still willing to leave the Frenchman one means af evasion,— 

“Do you not observe that this vault has already been broken into,” con- 
tinued he, “ and that several statues have been knocked down ?” 

“My lord, you have, without doubt, heard say that the religious respect 
of your Scots loves to confide to the statues of the dead the valuable objects 
they have possessed during their lives. Therefore the soldiers had reason to 
think that under the pedestals of the statues which ornament most of these 
tombs, a treasure was hidden. They have consequently broken down 
pedestal and statue: but the tomb of the venerable canon, with which we 
have to do, is not distinguished by any monument. It is simple, therefore 
it has been protected by the superstitious fear which your puritans have . 
always had of sacrilege. Not a morsel of the masonry of this tomb has 
been chipped off.” 

“ That is true,” said Monk. 

Athos seized the lever. 

“Shall I help you?” said Monk. 

“Thank you, my lord; but I am not willing your honour should put 
your hand to a work of which, perhaps, you would not take the responsi- 
bility if you knew the probable consequences of it.” 

Monk raised his head. 

“What do you mean by that, monsieur ?” 

“TI mean——but that man——” . 

“Stop,” said Monk; “I perceive what you are afraid of. I will make a 
trial.” Monk turned towards the fisherman, the whole of whose profile 
was thrown upon the wall. 

“Come here, friend !” said he in English, and in a tone of command. 


THE MARCH. 122 


The fisherman did not stir. | 

“That is well,” continued he: “he does not know English. Speak to 
me, then, in English, if you please, monsieur.” 

“ My lord,” replied Athos, “I have frequently seen men in certain cir- 
cumstances have the command over themselves not to reply to a question 
put to them in a language they understood. The fisherman is perhaps 
more learned than we believe him to be. Send him away, my lord, I beg 
of you.” 

Decidedly,” said Monk, “he wishes to have me alone in this vault. 
Never mind, we will go through with it ; one man is as good as another 
man ; and we are alone.—My friend,” said Monk to the fisherman, “ go 
back up the stairs we have just descended, and watch that nobody comes 
to disturb us.” The fisherman made a sign of obedience. ‘‘ Leave your 
torch,” said Monk; “it would betray your presence, and might procure 
you a musket-ball.” 

The fisherman appeared to appreciate the counsel ; he laid down the 
light, and disappeared under the vault of the stairs. Monk took up the 
torch, and brought it to the foot of the column. 

“Ah, ah!” said he ; “money, then, is concealed under this tomb ?” 

“Yes, my lord ; and in five minutes you will no longer doubt it.” 

At the same time Athos struck a violent blow upon the plaster, which 
split, presenting a chink for the point of the lever. Athos introduced the 
bar into this crack, and soon large pieces of plaster yielded, rising up like 
rounded slabs. Then the Comte de la Fére seized the stones and threw 
them away with a force that hands so delicate as his might not have been 
supposed capable of. 

“‘My lord,” said Athos, “this is plainly the masonry of which I told your 
honour.” 

“Yes ; but I do not yet see the casks,” said Monk. 

“Tf I had a poniard,” said Athos, looking round him, “ you should soon 
see them, monsieur. Unfortunately I left mine in your tent.” 

“T would willingly offer you mine,” said Monk, “but the blade is too 
thin for such work.” 

Athos appeared to look around him for a thing of some kind that might 
serve as a substitute for the arm he desired. Monk did not lose one of the 
movements of his hands, or one of the expressions of his eyes. ‘“ Why do 
you not ask the fisherman for his cutlass?” said Monk; “he has a cutlass.” 

“Ah! that is true,” said Athos ; “for he cut the tree down with it.” 
And he advanced towards the stairs. 

“Friend,” said he to the fisherman, “throw me down your cutlass, if you 
please ; I want it.” 

The noise of the falling arm resounded over the marshes. 

“Take it,” said Monk; ‘‘it is a solid instrument, as I have seen, and of 
which a strong hand might make good use.” 

Athos only appeared to give to the words of Monk the natural and simple 
sense under which they were to be heard and understood. Nor did he 
remark, or at least appear to remark, that when he returned with the 
weapon, Monk drew back, placing his left hand on the stock of his pistol ; 
in the right he already held his dirk. He went to work then, turning his 
back to Monk, placing his life in his hands, without possible defence. He 
then struck, during several seconds, so skilfully and sharply upon the inter- 
mediary plaster, that it separated in two parts, and Monk was able to dis- 
cern two barrels placed end to end, and which their weight maintained 
motionless in their chalky envelope. . 


122 V%.2 VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“My lord,” said Athos, “you see that my presentiments have not been 
disappointed.” 

“Yes, monsieur,” said Monk, “and I have good reason to believe you 
are satisfied ; are you not ?” 

“ Doubtless I am; the loss of this money would have been inexpressibly 
great tome; but I was certain that God, who protects the good cause, would 
not have permitted this gold, which should procure its triumph, to be 
diverted to baser purposes.” 

‘You are, upon my honour, as mysterious in your words as in your 
actions, monsieur,” said Monk, “Just now I did not perfectly understand 
you when you said that you were not willing to throw upon me the respon- 
sibility of the work we were accomplishing.” 

“I had reason to say so, my lord.” 

“And now you speak to me of the good cause. What do you mean by 
the words ‘the good cause?) Weare defending at this moment, in Eng- 
land, five or six causes, which does not prevent every one from considering 
his own, not only as the good cause, but as the best. What is yours, 
monsieur? Speak boldly, that we may see if, upon this point, to which 
you appear to attach a great importance, we are of the same opinion.” 

Athos fixed upon Monk one of those penetrating looks which seem to 
convey, to him they are directed to, a challenge to conceal a single one of 
his thoughts ; then, taking off his hat, he began in a solemn voice, while 
his interlocutor, with one hand upon his visage, allowed that long and 
nervous hand to compress his moustache and beard, at the same time that 
his vague and melancholy eye wandered about the recesses of the vaults. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 
HEART AND MIND. 


“ My lord,” said the Comte de la Fére, “ you are a noble Englishman, you 
are a loyal man; you are speaking to a noble Frenchman, to a man of 
heart. This gold contained in these two casks before us, I have told you 
was mine. I was wrong—it is the first lie I have pronounced in my life, a 
temporary lie, it is true. This gold is the property of King Charles IL., 
exiled from his country, driven from his palaces, the orphan at once of his 
father and his throne, and deprived of everything, even of the melancholy 
happiness of kissing on his knees the stone upon which the hands of his 
murderers have written that simple epitaph which will eternally cry out for 
vengeance upon them :—‘ HERE LIES CHARLES I.’” 

Monk grew slightly pale, and an imperceptible shudder crept over his 
skin and raised his grey moustache. . 

““T,” continued Athos, “I, Comte de la Fére, the last, the only faithful 
friend the poor abandoned prince has left, I have offered him to come 
hither to find the man upon whom now depends the fate of royalty and of 
England ; and I am come, and have placed myself under the eye of this 
man, and have placed myself naked and unarmed in his hands, saying :— 
‘My lord, here is the last resource of a prince whom God made your 
master, whom his birth made your king ; upon you, and you alone, depend 
his life and his future. Will you employ this money in consoling 
England for the evils it must have suffered from anarchy ; that is to say, 
will you aid, and if not aid, will you allow to act, King Charles II.? You 
are master, you are king, all-powerful master and king, for chance some- 
times defeats the work of time and God. I am here alone with you, my 


HEART AND MIND, 123 


lord : if the success being divided alarms you, if my complicity annoys 
you, you are armed, my lord, and here is a grave ready-dug ; if, on the 
contrary, the enthusiasm of your cause carries you away, if you are what 
you appear to be, if your hand in what it undertakes obeys your mind, and 
your mind your heart, here are the means of ruining for ever the cause of 
your enemy, Charles Stuart. Kill, then, the man you have before you, for 
that man will never return to him who has sent him without bearing with 
him the deposit which Charles I., his father, confided to him, and keep the 
gold which may assist in carrying on the civil war. Alas! my lord, it is 
the fate of this unfortunate prince. He must either corrupt or kill, for 
everything resists him, everything repulses him, everything is hostile to 
him ; and yet he is marked with the divine seal, and he must, not to belie 
his blood, reascend the throne, or die upon the sacred soil of his country. 

“My lord, you have heard me. To any other but the illustrious man 
who listens to me, I would have said: ‘ My lord, you are poor ; my lord, 
the king offers you this million as an earnest of an immense bargain; take 
it, and serve Charles II. as I served Charles I., and I feel assured that God 
who listens to us, who sees us, who alone reads in your heart, shut up from 
all human eyes,—I am assured God will give you a happy eternal life after 
a happy death.’ But to General Monk, to the illustrious man of whose 
standard I believe I have taken measure, I say : ‘ My lord, there is for you 
in the history of peoples and kings a brilliant place, an immortal, imperish- 
able glory, if alone, without any other interests but the good of your country 
and the interests of justice, you become the supporter of your king. Many 
others have been conquerors and glorious usurpers ; you, my lord, you will 
be content with being the most virtuous, the most honest, and the most 
incorrupt of men: you will have held a crown in your hand, and instead 
of placing it upon your own brow, you will have deposited it upon the head 
of him for whom it was made. Oh, my lord, act thus, and you will leave 
to posterity the most enviable of names, in which no human creature can 
rival you.’” 

Athos stopped. During the whole time that the noble gentleman was 
speaking, Monk had not given one sign of either approbation or Cisappro- 
bation ; scarcely even, during this vehement appeal, had his eyes been 
animated with that fire which bespeaks intelligence. The Comte de la 
Fére looked at him sorrowfully, and on seeing that melancholy countenance, 
felt discouragement penetrate to his very heart. At length Monk appeared 
to recover, and broke the silence. 

“Monsieur,” said he, in a mild, calm tone, “in reply to you, I will 
make use of your own words. To any other but yourself I would reply 
by expulsion, imprisonment, or still worse ; for, in fact, you t2mpt me and 
you force me at the same time. But you are one of those men, monsieur, 
to whom it is impossible to refuse the attention and respect they merit ; 
you are a brave gentleman, monsieur—I say so, and I am a judge. You 
Just now spoke of a deposit which the late king transmitted through you 
to his son—are you, then, one of those Frenchmen who, as I have heard, 
endeavoured to carry off Charles I. from Whitehall ?” 

“Yes, my lord ; it was I who was beneath the scaffold during the exe- 
cution ; I, who had not been able to redeem it, received upon my brow 
the blood of the martyred king. I received, at the same time, the last 
word of Charles I. ; it was to me he said, ‘REMEMBER?’ and in saying, 
‘Remember !’ he made allusion to the money at your feet, my lord.” 

“JT have heard much of you, monsieur,” said Monk, “ but I am happy to 
have, in the first place, appreciated you by my own observations, and not 


124 THE VICOMTE DE BKRAGELONNE. 


by my remembrances. I will give you, then, explanations that I have given 
to no other, and you will appreciate what a distinction I make between 
you and the persons who have hitherto been sent to me.” 

Athos bowed, and prepared to absorb greedily the words which fell, one 
by one, from the mouth of Monk,—those words rare and precious as the 
dew in the desert. 

“You spoke to ms,” said Monk, “ of Charles IJ. ; but pray, monsieur, 
of what consequence to me is that phantom of aking? I have grown old 
in a war and in a policy which are nowadays so closely linked together, 
that every man of the sword must fight in virtue of his rights or his ambi- 
tion with a personal interest, and not blindly behind an officer, as in ordi- 
nary wars. For myself, I perhaps desire nothing, but I fear much. In the 
war of to-day resides the liberty of England, and perhaps that of every 
Englishman. How can you expect that I, free in the position I have made 
for myself, should go willingly and hold out my hands to the shackles of a 
stranger? That is all Charles is tome. Hehas fought battles here which 
he has lost, he is therefore a bad captain ; he has succeeded in no nego-’ 
tiation, he is therefore a bad diplomatist ; he has paraded his wants and 
his miseries in all the courts of Europe, he has therefore a weak and pusil- , 
lanimous heart. Nothing noble, nothing great, nothing strong, has hitherto, | 
emanated from that genius which aspires to govern one of the greatest 
kingdoms of the earth. I know this Charles, then, under none but bad 
aspects, and you would wish me, a man of good sense, to go and make 
myself gratuitously the slave of a creature who is inferior to me in mili- 
tary capacity, in politics, and in dignity! No, monsieur. When some 
great and noble action shall have taught me to value Charles, I will perhaps 
recognise his rights to a throne from which we have cast the father because 
he wanted the virtues which his son has to this time wanted ; but hitherto, 
in fact of rights, I only recognise my own: the revolution made mea 
general, my sword will make me protector, if I wish it. Let Charles show 
himself, let him present himself, let him pass through the concurrence 
open to genius, and, above all, let him remember that he is of a race from 
whom more will be looked for than from any other. Therefore, monsieur, 
say no more about him. I neither refuse nor accept : I reserve. myself— 
I wait.” 

Athos knew Monk to be too well informed of all concerning Charles to 
venture to urge the discussion further ; it was neither the time nor the 
place. “My lord,” then said he, “I have nothing to do but to thank 


“ And for what, monsieur? For your having formed a correct opimion 
of me, and for my having acted according to your judgment? Is that, in 
truth, worthy of thanks? This gold which you are about to carry to Charles, 
will serve me as a test for him, by seeing the use he will make ofit. I 
shall have an opinion which now I have not.” 

“ And yet does not your honour fear to compromise yourself by allowing 
such a sum to be carried away for the service of your enemy ?” 

““My enemy, say you? Eh, monsieur, I have no enemies. I am in 
the service of the parliament, which orders me to combat General Lam- 
bert and Charles Stuart—its enemies, and not mine. I combat them. If 
the parliament, on the contrary, ordered me to unfurl my standards on the 
port of London, to assemble my soldiers on the banks to receive Charles 
IJ,.——” 

“You would obey ?” cried Athos, joyfully. A 

“Pardon me,” said Monk, smiling, “I was going—I, a grey-headed man 


<a 


HEART AND MIND. 125 


—in truth, how did I forget myself? I was going to speak like a foolish 
young man.” 

‘Then you would not obey ?” said Athos. 

“I do not say that either, monsieur. The welfare of my country before 
everything. God, who has given me the power, has, no doubt, willed that 
I should have that power for the good of all ; and He has given me, at the 
same time, discernment. Ifthe parliament were to order such a thing, I 
should reflect.” 

The brow of Athos became clouded. “Then I may decidedly say that 
your honour is not inclined to favour King Charles I]. >” 

“You continue to question me, Monsieur le Comte ; allow me, in my 
turn, if you please.” 

‘* Do, monsieur ; and may God inspire you with the idea of replying to 
me as frankly as I will reply to you.” 

“When you shall have taken this money back to your prince, what ad- 
vice will you give him ?” 

Athos fixed upon Monk a proud and resolute look. ‘ My lord,” said he, 
“with this million, which others would perhaps employ in negotiating, I 


. would advise the king to raise two regiments, to enter by Scotland, which 


you have just pacified ; to give to the people the franchises which the re- 
volution promised them, and in which it has not, in all cases, kept its 
word. I should advise him to command in person this little army, which 
wouid, believe me, increase, and to die, standard in hand, and sword in 
its sheath, saying, ‘Englishmen ! I am the third king of my race you have 
killed ; beware of the justice of God !’” 

Monk hung down his head, and mused for an instant. “ If he succeeded,” 
said he, “ which is very improbable, but not impossible—for everything is 
possible in this world— what would you advise him to do?” 

“To think that by the will of God he lost his crown, but by the good 
will of men he has recovered it.” 

An ironical smile passed over the lips of Monk. “ Unfortunately, mon- 
sieur,” said he, “kings do not know how to follow good advice.” 

“ Ah, my lord, Charles II. is not a king,” replied Athos, smiling in his 
turn, but with a very different expression than Monk had done. 

“Let us terminate this, Monsieur le Comte,—that is your desire, is it 
not ?” 

Athos bowed. 

“I will give orders that these two casks shall be transported whither you 
please. Where are you lodging, monsieur ?” 

“In a little bourg at the mouth of the river, your honour.” 

“Oh, I know the bourg ; it consists of five or six houses, does it not ?” 
“Exactly. Well, I inhabit the first,—two net-makers occupy it with me; 
is their barque which placed me on shore.” 

“But your own vessel, monsieur ?” 

“My vessel is at anchor, a quarter of a mile at sea, and waits for me.” 
“You do not think, however, of setting out immediately ?” 

*“ My lord, I shall try once more to convince your honour.” 

“You will not succeed,” replied Monk ; “but it is of consequence that 
you should quit Newcastle without leaving on your passage the least sus- 
picion that might prove injurious to me or you. To-morrow my officers 
think Lambert will attack me. I, on the contrary, will be bound he will 
not stir ; it is, in my opinion, impossible. Lambert leads an army devoid 
of homogeneous principles, and there is no possible army with such ele- 
ments. I have taught my soldiers to consider my authority subordinate 


i 


co 


126 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


to another, which causes that after me, around me, and beneath me, they 
still look for something. It would result, that if I were dead, whatever 
might happen, my army would not be demoralised all at once ; it results, 
that if I chose to absent myself, for instance, as it does please me to do 
sometimes, there would not be in my camp the shadow of uneasiness or 
disorder. I am the magnet—the sympathetic and natural strength of the 
English. All those scattered arms that will be sent against me I shall 
attract to myself. Lambert, at this moment, commands eighteen thousand 
deserters ; but I have never mentioned that to my officers, you may easily 
suppose. Nothing is more useful to an army than the expectation of a 
coming battle : everybody is awake—everybody is on his guard. I tell 
you this that you may live in perfect security. Do not beina hurry, then, 
to cross the seas ; within a week there will be something fresh, either a 
battle or an accommodation. Then, as you have judged me to be an 
honourable man, and confided your secret to me, I have to thank you for 
this confidence, and I will come and pay you a visit or send for you. Do 
not go before I send you word. I repeat the request.” 

“[ promise you, general,” cried Athos, with a joy so great, that, in 
spite of all his circumspection, he could not prevent its sparkling in his 
eyes. 

Monk surprised this flash, and immediately extinguished it by one of 
those mute smiles which always broke, between these two interlocutors, the 
way which Athos believed he had made in his mind. 

“Then, my lord, it is a week that you desire me to wait ?” 

“A week? yes, monsieur.” 

“And during these days what shall I do” 

“ If there should be a battle, keep at a distance from it, I conjure you. 
I know the French delight in such amusements ;—you might take a fancy 
to see how we fight, and you might meet with some chance shot. Our 
Scotchmen are very bad marksmen, and I do not wish that a worthy 
gentleman like you should return to France wounded. I should not like 
either to be obliged, myself, to send to your prince his million left here by 
you ; for then it would be said, and with reason, that I paid the pretender 
to enable him to make war against the parliament. Go, then, monsieur, 
and let it be done as has been agreed upon.” 

“Ah, my lord,” said Athos, “what joy it would give me to be the first 
that penetrated to the noble heart which beats beneath that cloak !” 

“You decidedly think, then, that I have secrets,” said Monk, without 
changing the half-cheerful expression of his countenance. “ Why, mon 
sicur, what secret can you expect to find in the hollow head of a soldier ? 
But it is getting late, and our torch is almost out ; let us call our man.” 

eannld / cried Monk in French approaching the stairs ; “ Zola / fisher- 
man ! 

The fisherman, benumbed by the cold night-air, replied in a hoarse 
voice, asking what they wanted of him. 

“Go to the post,” said Monk, “and order a sergeant, in the name of 
General Monk, to come here immediately.” 

This was a commission easily performed ; for the sergeant, uneasy at 
the general’s being in that desolate abbey, had drawn nearer by degrees, 
and was not much further off than the fisherman. The general’s order 
was therefore heard by him, and he hastened to’ obey it. 

“Get a horse and two men,” said Monk. 

‘A horse and two men ?” repeated the sergeant. . 

Yes,” replied Monk. “ Have you any means of getting a horse with a 
pack-saddle or two paniers ?” : se 


HEART AND MIND. 127 


“ No doubt, at a hundred paces off, in the Scotch camp.” 

“Very well.” 

“What shall I do with the horse, general ?” 

“ Look here.” 

The sergeant descended the three steps, which separated him from Monk, 
and came into the vault. 

“ You see,” said Monk, “that gentleman yonder ?” 

Yes, general.” 

“And you see these two casks ?” 

* Perfectly.” 

“They are two casks, one containing powder, and the other balls ; I wish 
these casks to be transported to the little bourg at the mouth of the river, 
and which I reckon upon occupying to-morrow with two hundred muskets. 
You understand that the commission is a secret one, for it is a movement 
that may decide the fate of the battle.” 

“Oh, general !” murmured the sergeant. 

“Mind, then! Let these casks be fastened on to the horse, and let them 
be escorted by two men and you to the residence of this gentleman, who 
is my friend. But take care that nobody knows it.” 

~ “T] would go by the marsh if I knew the road,” said the sergeant. 

“T know one myself,” said Athos ; “it is not wide, but it is solid, having 
been made upon piles; and with precaution we shall get there safely 
enough.” 

“ To everything this gentleman shall order you to do.” 

“Oh! oh! the casks are heavy,” said the sergeant, trying to lift one. 

“ They weigh four hundred pounds each, if they contain what they ought 
to contain, do they not, monsieur ?” 

“Thereabouts,” said Athos. 

The sergeant went in search of the two men and the horse. Monk, left 
alone with Athos, affected to speak to him of nothing but indifferent things, 
while examining the vault in a cursorymanner. Then, hearing the horse’s 
steps,— 

“I leave you with your men, monsieur,” said he, “and return to the 
camp. You are perfectly safe.” 

“I shall see you again, then, my lord ?” asked Athos. 

“That is agreed upon, monsieur, and with much pleasure.” 

Monk held out his hand to Athos. 

“Ah! my lord, if you would !” murmured Athos. 

‘““ Hush ! Monsieur, it is agreed that we shall speak no more of that.” 
And bowing to Athos, he went up the stairs, passing, about the middle of 
them, his men who were coming down. He had not gone twenty paces, 
when a faint but prolonged whistle was heard at a distance. Monk 
listened, but seeing nothing and hearing nothing, he continued his route. 
Then he remembered the fisherman, and looked about for him ; but the 
fisherman had disappeared. If he had, however, looked with more atten- 
tion, he might have seen that man, bent double, gliding like a serpent 
along the stones and losing himself in the mist, floating over the surface 
of the marsh. He might have equally seen, attempting to pierce that mist, 
a spectacle that might have attracted his attention ; and that was the 
rigging of the vessel, which had changed place, and was now nearer the 
shore. But Monk saw nothing ; and thinking he had nothing to fear, he 
entered the desert causeway which led to his camp. It was then that the 
disappearance of the fisherman appeared strange, and that a real suspicion 
began to take possession of his mind. He had just placed at the orders of 


{28 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


Athos the only post that could protect him. He hada mile of causeway : 


to traverse before he could regain his camp. The fog increased with such 
intensity that he could scarcely distinguish objects at ten paces’ distance. 
Monk then thought he heard the sound of an oar over the marsh on the 
right. ‘ Who goes there ?” said he. tg Se, 

But nobody answered ; then he cocked his pistol, took his sword in his 
hand, and quickened his pace, without, however, being willing to ca_ 
anybody. Such a summons, for which there was no absolute necessity 
appeared unworthy of him. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 
THE NEXT DAY. 


IT was seven o’clock in the morning, the first rays of day lightened the 
pools of the marsh, in which the sun was reflected like a red ball, wher 
Athos awaking and opening the window of his bed-chamber, which looke 
out upon the banks of the river, perceived, at fifteen paces’ distance fror 
him, the sergeant and the men who had accompanied him the evening 


before, and who, after having deposited his casks at his house, had re- © 


turned to the camp by the causeway on the right. 
For what could these men, after having returned to the camp, come 
back? That was the question which first presented itself to Athos. The 


sergeant, with his head raised, appeared to be watching the moment when | 


the gentleman should appear, to address him. Athos, surprised to see 


these men there, whom he had seen depart the night before, could not pre- 


vent himself from expressing his astonishment to them. 

“‘' There is nothing surprising in that, monsieur,” said the sergeant ; “for 
yesterday the general commanded me to watch over your safety, and I 
thought it right to obey that order.” 

‘Ts the general at the camp ?” asked Athos. 

‘““No doubt he is, monsieur ; as when he left you he was going back.” 

“Well, wait for me a moment ; I am going thither to render an account 
of the fidelity with which you fulfilled your duty, and to get my sword, 
which I left upon the table in the tent.” 

“That falls out very well,” said the sergeant, “ for we were about to re- 
quest you to do so.” 

Athos fancied he could detect an air of equivocal doxhomze upon the 
countenance of the sergeant ; but the adventure of the vault might have 
excited the curiosity of the man, and he was not surprised that he allowed 
some of the feelings which agitated his mind to appear in his face. Athos 
closed the doors carefully, confiding the keys to Grimaud, who had chosen 
his domicile beneath the shed itself, which led to the cellar where the 
casks had been deposited. The sergeant escorted the Comte de la Fére 
to the camp. There a fresh guard awaited him, and relieved the four men 
who had conducted Athos. This fresh guard was commanded by the aide- 
de-camp Digby, who, on their way, fixed upon Athos looks so little en- 
couraging, that the Frenchman asked himself, whence arose, with regard 
to him, this vigilance and this severity, when the evening before he had 
been left perfectly free. He continued his way not the less to the head- 
quarters, keeping to himself the observations which men and things forced 
him to make. He found under the general’s tent, to which he had been 
introduced the evening before, three superior officers: these were Monk’s 
lieutenant and two colonels. Athos perceived his sword ; it was still on 


THE NEXT DAY. 129 


the table where he had left it. Neither of the officers had seen Athos, 
consequently neither of them knew him. Monk’s lieutenant asked, at the 
appearance of Athos, if that were the same gentleman with whom the 
general had left the tent. 

“Yes, your honour,” said the sergeant ; “it is the same.” 

“But,” said Athos, haughtily, “I do not deny it, I think; and now, 
gentlemen, in my turn, permit me to ask you to what purpose are these 
questions asked, and particularly some explanation upon the tone in which 
you ask them ?” 

“ Monsieur,” said the lieutenant, “if we address these questions to you, 
it is because we have a right to do so, and if we make them in a particular 
tone, it is because that tone, believe me, agrees with the circumstances.” 

“ Gentlemen,” said Athos, “ you do not know who I am; but I must tell 
you I acknowledge no one here but General Monk as my equal. Where 
ishe? Let me be conducted to him, and if he has any questions to put 
to me, I will answer him, and to his satisfaction, I hope. I repeat, gentle- 
men, where is the general ?” 

“Eh! good God! you know better than we do where he is,” said the 
lieutenant. 

“yy pp_« Yes, you.” 

“ Monsieur,” said Athos, “I do not understand you.” 

“You will understand me—and, on your part, in the first place, do not 
speak so loud.” 

Athos smiled disdainfully. 

“We don’t ask you to smile,” said one of the colonels warmly; “ we re- 
quire you to answer.” 

“And I, gentlemen, declare to you that I will not reply until I am in the 
presence of the general.” 

“But,” replied the same colonel who had already spoken, “you know 
very well that that is impossible.” 

“ This is the second time I have received this strange reply to the wish 
I express,” said Athos. ‘Is the general absent ?” 

This question was made with such apparent good faith, and the gentle- 
man wore an air of such natural surprise, that the three officers exchanged 2 
meaning look. The lieutenant, by a tacit convention with the other two, 
was spokesman. 

“Monsieur, the general left you last night in the boundaries of the 
monastery ?” 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

‘And you went a 

“It is not for me to answer you, but for those who have accompanied 
me. ‘They were your soldiers, ask them.” 

“ But if we please to interrogate you ?” 

“Then it will please me to reply, monsieur, that I do not appeal to any- 
one here, that I know no one here but the general, and that it is to him 
alone I will reply.” 

“So be it, monsieur ; but as we are the masters, we constitute ourselves 
a council of war, and when you are before judges you must reply.” 

The countenance of Athas expressed nothing but astonishment and dis- 
dain, instead of the terror the officers expected to read in it at this 
threat. ' 

“Scotch or English judges upon me, a subject of the king of France ; 
upon me, placed under the safeguard of British honour! You are mad, 
gentlemen !” said Athos, shrugging his shoulders. 2 


9 


130 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


The officers looked at each other. ‘ Then, monsieur,” said one of them, 
“do you pretend not to know where the general is ?” 

“To that, monsieur, I have already replied.” 

** Ves, but you have already replied an incredible thing.” 
“Tt is true, nevertheless, gentlemen. Men of my rank are not generally 
liars. I ama gentleman, I have told you, and when I have at my side 
the sword which, by an excess of delicacy, I last night left upon the table 
whereon it still lies, believe me, no man says that to me which I am un- 
willing to hear. I am at this moment disarmed ; if you pretend to be my 
judges, try me ; if you are but my executioners, kill me.” ' 

“ But, monsieur——” asked the lieutenant, in a more courteous voice, 
struck with the lofty coolness of Athos. 

“ Monsieur, I came to speak confidentially with your general about affairs 
of importance. It was not an ordinary welcome that he gave me. The 
accounts your soldiers can give you may convince you of that. If, then, 
the general received me in that manner, he knew what were my titles to 
his esteem. Now, you do not suspect, I should think, that I should reveal 
my secrets to you, and still less his.” 

“ But these casks, what do they contain ?” 


7 


“Have you not put that question to your soldiers? What was their 


reply °” 

“That they contained powder and ball.” 

“From whom had they that information. They must have told you that.” 

“From the general ; but we are not dupes.” 

* Beware, gentlemen ; it is not to me you are now giving the lie, it is to 
your leader.” 

The ofacers again looked at each other. Athos continued: “ Before your 
soldiers the general told me to wait a week, and at the expiration of that 
week he would give me the answer he had to make me. Havel fled away? 
No<.1 wait.” 

“He told you to wait a week !” cried the lieutenant. 

“‘ He told me so clearly so, monsieur, that I have a sloop at the mouth 
of the river, which I could with ease have joined yesterday, and embarked. 
Now, if I have remained, it was only in compliance with the desire of your 
general; his honour having requested me not to depart without a last 


audience, which he fixed at a week hence. I repeat to you then, I am > 


waiting.” 

The lieutenant turned towards the other officers, and said, in a low 
voice: “If this gentleman speaks truth, there may still be some hope. 
The general may be carrying out some negotiations so secret, that he 
thought it imprudent to inform even us. Then the time limited for his 
absence would be a week.” Then, turning towards Athos: “ Monsieur,” 
said he, “your declaration is of the most serious importance ; are you 
willing to repeat it under the seal of an oath ?” . 

“ Monsieur,” replied Athos, “I have always lived in a world where my 
simple word was regarded as the most sacred of oaths.” 


“This time, however, monsieur, the circumstance is more grave than 


any you may have been placed in. The safety of the whole army is at 
stake. Reflect ; the general has disappeared, and our search for him has 
been vain. Is this disappearance natural? Has a crime been committed? 
Are we not bound to carry our investigations to extremity? Have we any 
right to wait with patience? At this moment, everything, monsieur, de- 
pends upon the words you are about to pronounce.” 

‘Interrogated thus, monsieur, I no longer hesitate,” said Athos. “Yes, 


THE NEXT DAY. Oe 131 


I came hither to converse confidentially with General Monk, and to ask of 
him an answer regarding certain interests ; yes, the general being, doubt- 
less, unable to pronounce before the expected battle, begged me to remain 
a week in the house I inhabit, promising me that in a week I should see 
him again. Yes, all this is true, and I swear it, by the God who is the 
absolute master of my life and yours.” Athos pronounced these words 
with so much grandeur and solemnity, that the three officers were almost 
convinced, Nevertheless, one of the colonels made a last attempt. 

“Monsieur,” said he, “ although we may be now persuaded of the truth 
of what you say, there is yet a strange mystery in all this. The general 
is too prudent a man to have thus abandoned his army on the eve of a 
battle, without having at least given to one of us a notice of it. As for 
myself, I cannot believe but that some strange event has been the cause 
of this disappearance. Yesterday some foreign fishermen came to sell 
their fish here ; they were lodged yonder among the Scots ; that is to say, 
on the road the general took with this gentleman, to go to the abbey, and 
to return from it. It was one of those fishermen that accompanied the 
general with a light. And this morning, barque and fishermen have all 
disappeared, carried away by the night’s tide.” 

“For my part,” said the lieutenant, “I see nothing in that, that is not 
quite natural, for these people were not prisoners.” 

“No; but I repeat it was one of them who lit the general and this 
gentleman to the abbey, and Digby assures us that the general had strong 
suspicions concerning those people. Now, who can say whether these 
people were not connected with this gentleman; and that, the blow 
being struck, the gentleman, who is evidently brave, did not remain to re- 
assure us by his presence, and to prevent our researches being made in a 
right direction ?” 

This speech made an impression upon the other two officers. 

“ Monsieur,” said Athos, “permit me to tell you, that your reasoning, 
though specious in appearance, nevertheless wants consistency, as regards 
me. I have remained, you say, to divert suspicion. Well! on the con- 
trary, suspicions arise in me as well as in you; and I say, it is impossible, 
gentlemen, that the general, on the eve of a battle, should leave his army 
without saying anything to, at least, one of his officers. Yes, there is 
some strange event connected with this; yes, instead of being idle and 
Waiting, you must display all the activity, and all the vigilance possible. I 
am your prisoner, gentlemen, upon parole or otherwise. My honour is 
concerned in the ascertaining of what is become of General Monk, and to 
such a point, that if,you were to say to me, ‘ Depart ! I should reply : ‘ No, 
I will remain! And if you were to ask my opinion, I should add : ‘Yes, 
the general is the victim of some conspiracy ; for, if he had intended to 
leave the camp he would have told me so.’ Seek then, search the land, 
search the sea; the general has not gone with his own good will.” 

The lieutenant made a sign to the two other officers. 

“No, monsieur,” said he, “no ; in your turn you go too far. The gene- 
ral has nothing to suffer from these events, and no doubt, has directed 
them. What Monk is now doing he has often done before. We are 
wrong in alarming ourselves ; his absence will, doubtless, be of short du- 
ration ; therefore, let us beware, lest by a pusillanimity which the general 
would consider a crime, of making his absence public ; and by that means 
demoralizing the army. The general gives a striking proof of his con- 

fidence in us ; let us show ourselves worthy of it. Gentlemen, let the most 
profound silence coyer all this with an impenetrable veil; we will detain 
| g=2 

} 

} 


132 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


this gentleman, not from mistrust of him with regard to the crime, but to 
assure more effectively the secrecy of the absence of the general, and the 
concentrating of it among ourselves ; therefore, until fresh orders, the 
gentleman will remain at head-quarters.” 

“ Gentlemen,” said Athos, “you forget that last night the general con- 
fided to me a deposit over which I am bound to watch. Give me what- 
ever guard you like, enchain me if you like, but leave me the house I in- 
habit for my prison. The general, on his return, would reproach you, I 
swear on the honour of a gentleman, for having displeased him in this.” 

“So be it, monsieur,” said the lieutenant ; “return to your abode.” 

Then they placed over Athos a guard of fifty men, who surrounded his 
house, without losing sight of him for a minute. A 

The secret remained secure, but hours, but days passed away without. 
the general’s returning, or without anything being heard of him, 


CHAPTER XAVITE 
SMUGGLING. 


Two days after the events we have just related, and whilst every instant( 
General Monk was looked for in the camp to which he did not return, a \\ 
little Dutch fe/ucca, manned by eleven men, cast anchor upon the coast of , 
Scheveningen, nearly within cannon-shot of the port. It was night, the \ 
darkness was great, the sea rose in the darkness: it was a capital time 
to land passengers and merchandise. 

The road of Scheveningen forms a vast crescent ; it is not very deep and 
not very safe ; therefore, nothing is seen stationed there but large Flemish 
hoys, or some of those Dutch barques which fishermen draw up upon the 
sand upon rollers, as the ancients did, according to Virgil. When the tide 
is rising, ascends and advances on the land, it is not prudent to bring the 
vessels too close in shore, for, if the wind is fresh, the prows are buried in 
the sand ; and the sand of that coast is spongy; it receives easily, but 
does not give up so. It was on this account, no doubt, that a boat was 
detached from the barque, as soon as the latter had cast anchor, and came 
with eight sailors, amidst whom was to be seen an object of an oblong form, 
a sort of largepannier or bale. . 

The shore was deserted ; the few fishermen inhabiting the dune were 
gone to bed. The only sentinel that guarded the coast (a coast very badly 
guarded, seeing that a landing from large ships was impossible), without 


sae: 


soundly as they slept in their beds. The only noise to be heard, then, was 
the whistling of the night-breeze among the bushes and brambles of the 
dune. But the people who were approaching were doybtless mistrustful 
people, for this real silence and apparent solitude did not satisfy them. 
Their boat, therefore, scarcely visible as a dark speck upon the ocean 

glided along noiselessly, avoiding the use of their oarsifor fear of being 
heard, and gained the nearest land. Scarcely had it tou¢hed the ground 
when a single man jumped out of the boat, after havihg given a brief 
order, in a manner which denoted the habit of commanding, In conse- 
quence of this order, several muskets immediately glittered tm the feeble 
light reflected from that mirror of the heavens, the sea ; and the oblong bale 
of which we spoke, containing no doubt some contraband object, was trans- 
ported to land, with infinite precautions. Immediately after, the man who 


\ 


| 


SMUGGLING. 133 


had landed first, set off in a hasty pace diagonally towards the village of 
Scheveningen, directing his course to the nearest point of the wood. 
When there, he sought for that house already described as the temporary 
residence—and a very humble residence—of him who was styled by 
courtesy king of England. All were asleep there, as everywhere else, only 
a large dog, of the race of those which the fishermen of Scheveningen 
harness to little carts to carry fish to the Hague, began to bark formidably 
as soon as the stranger’s steps were audible beneath the windows. But 
this watchfulness, instead of alarming the newly-landed man, appeared, on 
the contrary, to give him great joy, for his voice might perhaps have 
proved insufficient to rouse the people of the house, whilst, with an auxili- 
ary of that sort, his voice became almost useless. The stranger waited, 
then, till these reiterated and sonorous barkings should, according to all 
probability, have produced their effect, and then he ventured a summons. 
On hearing his voice, the dog began to roar with such violence that soon 
another voice was heard from the interior, appeasing that of the dog. 
With that the dog was quieted. 

“What do you want?” asked that voice, at the same time weak broken, 
and civil. 

“T want his majesty King Charles II., king of England,” said the 
stranger. 

“ What do you want with him ?” 

“T want to speak to him” 

“Who are you ?” 

“Ah! mordioux! you ask too much; I don’t like talking through 
doors.” 

“Only tell me your name.” 

“T don’t like to declare my name in the open air, neither ; besides, you 
may be sure I shall not eat your dog, and I hope to God he will be as 
reserved with respect to me.’ 

“You bring news, perhaps, monsieur, do you not?” replied the voice, 
patient and querulous as that ofan old man. 

“T will answer for it, I bring you news you little expect. Open the door, 
then, if you please, hein ? 

“ Monsieur, ” persisted the old man, “ do you believe, upon your soul and 
conscience, that your news is worth waking the king for ? 

“For God’s sake, my dear monsieur, draw your bolts ; you will not be 
sorry, I will swear, ‘for the trouble it will give you. I am worth my weight 
in gold, parole d honneur J? 

“ Monsieur, I cannot, notwithstanding, open the door till you have 
told me your name.” 

‘“* Must I, then ?” 

“Tt is by the order 0. my master, monsieur.” . 

“Well, my name is—but, I warn you, my name will tell you absolutely 
nothing.” 

‘Never mind, tell it, notwithstanding.” 

“Well, I am the Chevalier d’Artagnan.” 

The voice uttered an exclamation. 

“Oh! good heavens!” said the voice on the other side of the door, 
“Monsieur d’Artagnan! What happiness! I could not help thinking I 
knew that voice.” 

“Humph !” said D’Artagnan. “My voice is known here! That’s 
flattering.” 

“Ohl yes, we knowit,” said the old man, drawing the bolts ; “and here 


134 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


is the proof.” And at these words he let in D’Artagnan, who, by the higiht 
of the lantern he carried in his hand, recognised his obstinate interlocutor. 

“Ah! mordioux ! cried he; “why it is Parry ! I ought to have known 
that.” 

“Parry, yes, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, it is I. What joy to see 
you once again !” 

“Vou are right there, what joy !” said D’Artagnan, pressing the old 
man’s hand. “There, now you'll go and inform the king, will you not 2” 

“ But the king is asleep, my dear monsieur.” 

“ Mordioux / then wake him. He won't scold you for having disturbed 
him, I will promise you.” 

“You come on the part of the comte, do you not?” 

The Comte de la. Feére ?” 

From Athos ?” 

“ Wa foi! no; I comeon my own part. Come, Parry, quick! The 
king—I want the king.” 

Parry did not think it his duty to resist any longer ; he knew D’Artag- 
nan long before ; he knew that although a Gascon, his words never pro- 
mised more than they could stand to. He crossed a court and a little 


garden, appeased the dog, who seemed seriously to wish to taste the mus- — 


keteer, and went howling to the shelter of a chamber forming the ground- 


floor of a little pavilion. Immediately a little dog inhabiting that chamber 
replied tothe great dog inhabiting the court. 


un 


“Poor king !” said D’Artagnan to himself, “these are his body-guards. 


It is true he is not the worse guarded on that account.” 

“What is wanted with me?” asked the king, from the back of the 
chamber. 

“¢ Sire, it is M. le Chevalier d’Artagnan, who brings you some news.” 

A noise was immediately heard in the chamber, a door was opened, and 
a flood of light inundated the corridor and the garden. The king was work- 
ing by the light of a lamp. Papers were lying about upon his desk, and he 
had commenced the foul copy of a letter which showed, by the numerous 
erasures, the trouble he had had in writing it. 

“Come in, monsieur le chevalier,” said he, turning round. Then per- 
ceiving the fisherman, ‘“ What do you mean, Parry? Where is M. le Che- 
valier d’Artagnan ?” asked Charles. 

“ He is before you, sire,” said M. d’Artagnan. 

“What, in that costume ?” 

“Yes; look at me, sire ; do you not remember having seen meat Blois, 
in the antechambers of king Louis XIV. ?” 

“Yes, monsieur, and I remember I was much pleased with you.” 

D’Artagnan bowed. “It was my duty to conduct myself as I did, the 
moment I knew that I had ‘the honour of being near your majesty.” 

“You bring me news, do you say ?” 

aves, a5ire.” 

“From the king of France >” 

“ Ma fot! no, sire,” replied D’Artagnan. “ Your majesty must have 
seen yonder that the king of France is only occupied with his own 
majesty ?” 

Charles raised his eyes towards heaven. . 

“No, sire, no,” continued D’Artagnan. “I bring news entirely com- 
posed of personal facts. Nevertheless, I hope your majesty will listen to 
the facts and news with some favour.” 

* Speak, monsieur.” 


SMUGGLING. 935 


“If I am not mistaken, sire, your majesty spoke a great deal at Blois, 
of the embarrassed state in which the affairs of England are.” 

Charles coloured. ‘“ Monsieur,” said he, “it was to the king of France 
I related . 

“Oh! your majesty is mistaken,” said the musketeer, coolly, “I know 
how to speak to kings in misfortune. It is oniy when they are in misfor- 
tune that they speak to me ; once fortunate, they look upon me no more. 
I have, then, for your majesty, not only the greatest respect, but, still more, 
the most absolute devotion ; and that, believe me, with me, sire, means 
something. Now, hearing your majesty complain of your destiny, I found 
that you were noble and generous, and bore misfortune well.” 

“Tn truth !” said Charles, much astonished, “I do not know which I 
ought to prefer, your freedoms or your respects.” 

** You will choose presently, sire,” said D’Artagnan. “ Then your majesty 
complained to your brother, Louis XIV., of the difficulty you experienced 
in returning to England and regaining your throne, for want of men and 
money.” 

Charles allowed a movement of impatience to escape him. 

“And the principal object your majesty found in your way,” continued 

)\ D’Artagnan, “ wasa certain general commanding the armies of the parlia- 
/ ment, and who was playing yonder the part of another Cromwell. Did 
/ not your majesty say so?” 

, “Yes; but I repeat to you, monsieur, those words were for the king’s 
' ears alone.” 

“ And you will see, sire, that it is very fortunate that they fell into those 
of his lieutenant of musketeers. That man so troublesome to your majesty 
was one General Monk, I believe; did I not hear his name correctly, 
sire ?” 

‘Yes, monsieur ; but once more, to what purpose are all these ques- 
tions?” 

“Oh! I know very well, sire, that etiquette will not allow kings to be 
interrogated. I hope, however, presently you will pardon my want of 
etiquette. Your majesty added that, notwithstanding, if you could see 
him, confer with him, and meet him face to face, you would triumph, 
either by force or persuasion, over that obstacle—the only serious one, the 
only insurmountable one, the only real one you met with on your road.” 

“All that is true, monsieur ; my destiny, my future, my obscurity, or 
my glory depend upon that man ; but what do you draw from that ?” 

“One thing alone: that if this General Monk is troublesome to the 
point you describe, it would be expedient to get rid of him, your majesty, 
or to makean ally of him.’ 

“‘ Monsieur, a king who has neither army nor money, as you have heard 
my conversation with my brother Louis, has no means of acting against a 
man like Monk.” 

“Yes, sire, that was your opinion, I know very well : but, fortunately for 
you, it was not mine.” 

“What do you mean by that ?” 

“That, without an army and without a million, I have done—., myself 
—what your majesty thought could alone be done with an army and a 
million.” 

“How! What do you say? What have you done ?? 

“What have I done? Eh! well, sire, 1 went yonder to take this man 
who is so troublesome to your majesty.” 

“tn England ?” 


136 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“Exactly, sire.” ; 

“Vou went to take Monk in England ?? 

“Should I by chance have done wrong, sire?” 

“Tn truth, you are mad, monsieur !” 

“ Not the least in the world, sire.” 

“You have taken Monk ?” 

“Yes, sire.” 

“ Where ?” 

“In the midst of his camp.” 

The king trembled with impatience. 

“ And having taken him on the causeway of Newcastle, I bring him to 
your Majesty,” said D’Artagnan simply. 

“Vou bring him to me !” cried the king, almost indignant at what he 
considered a mystification. 

“Ves, sire,” replied D’Artagnan, in the same tone, “I bring him to you, 
he is down below yonder, in a large chest pierced with holes, so as to 
allow him to breathe.” 

“Good God !” 


“Oh! don’t be uneasy, sire; we have taken the greatest possible care , 
of him. He comes in good state, and in perfect condition. Would your 


majesty please to see him, to talk with him, or to have him thrown into | 


the sea ?” 

“Oh, heavens !” repeated Charles, “oh, heavens! do you speak the 
truth, monsieur? Are you not insulting me with some unworthy 
pleasantry? You have accomplished this unheard-of act of audacity and 
genius—impossible !” 

“Will your majesty permit me to open the window 2” said D’Artagnan, 
opening it. 

The king had not time to reply, yes or no. D’Artagnan gave a shrill 
and prolonged whistle, which he repeated three times through the silence 
of the night. 

“ There !” said he, “he will be brought to your majesty.” 


wee ee 


CHART ER xis 


IN WHICH D’ARTAGNAN BEGINS TO FEAR HE HAS PLACED HIS MONEY 
AND THAT OF PLANCHET IN THE SINKING FUND. 


THE king could not overcome his surprise, and looked sometimes at the 
smiling face of the musketeer, and sometimes at the dark window which 
opened into the night. But before he had fixed his ideas, eight of 
D’Artagnan’s men, for two had remained to take care of the barque, 
brought to the house, where Parry received him, that object of an oblong 
form, which, for the moment, inclosed the destinies of England. Before 
he left Calais, D’Artagnan had had made in that city a sort of coffin, large 
and deep enough for a man to turn init at his ease. The bottom and sides, 
properly mattressed, formed a bed sufficiently soft to prevent the rolling of 
the ship turning this kind of cage into a rat-trap. The little grating, 


which D’Artagnan had spoken to the king, like the vizor of a helmet, was 


placed opposite to the man’s face. It was so constructed that, at the least 
cry, a sudden pressure would stifle that cry, and, if necessary, him who 
had uttered that cry. D’Artagnan was so well acquainted with his crew 
and his prisoner, that during the whole voyage he had been in dread ot 
two things: either that the general would prefer death to this sort of im- 


an 


D'ARTAGNAN’S FEARS, 135 


prisonment, and would smother himself by endeavouring to speak, or that 
his guards would allow themselves to be tempted by the offers of the 
prisoner, and put him, D’Artagnan, into the box instead of Monk. D’Artag- 
nan, therefore, had passed the two days and the two nights of the voyage 
close to the coffin, alone with the general, offering him wine and food, 
which he had refused, and constantly endeavouring to reassure him upon 
the destiny which awaited him at the end of this singular captivity. Two 
pistols on the table and his naked sword made D’Artagnan easy with 
regard to indiscretions from without. When once at Scheveningen he 
had felt completely reassured. His men greatly dreaded any conflict with 
the lords of the soil. He had, besides, interested in his cause him who 
had morally served him as lieutenant, and whom we have seen reply to 
the name of Menneville. The latter, not being a vulgar spirit, had more 
to risk than the others, because he had more conscience. He had faith 
in a future in the service of D’Artagnan, and consequently would have 
allowed hinself to be cut to pieces, rather than violate the order given by 
his leader. Thus it was that, once landed, it was to him D’Artagnan had 
confided the care of the chest and the general’s respiration. It was him, 
too, he had ordered to have the chest brought by the seven men as soon 
as he should hear the triple whistle. We haveseen that the lieutenant 


obeyed. The coffer once in the house, D’Artagnan dismissed his men 


with a gracious smile, saying, “‘ Messieurs, you have rendered a great 
service to King Charles IJ., who in less than six weeks will be king of 
England. Your gratification will then be doubled. Return to the boat 
and wait for me.” Upon which they departed with such shouts of joy as 
terrified even the dog himself. 

D’Artagnan had caused the coffer to be brought as far as into the king’s 
antechamber. He then, with great care, closed the door of this ante- 
chamber, after which he opened the coffer, and said to the general : 

“General, I have a thousand excuses to make to you; my manner of 
acting has not been worthy of such a man as you, I know very well ; but 
I wished you to take me for the captain of a barque. And then England 
is a very inconvenient country for transports. I hope, therefore, you will 
take all that into consideration. But now, general, you are at liberty to 
get up and walk.” This said, he cut the bonds which fastened the arms 
and hands of the general. The latter got up, and then sat down with the 
countenance of a man who expects death. D’Artagnan opened the door 
of Charles’s cabinet, and said, “Sire, here is your enemy, M. Monk; I 
promised myself to perform this service for your majesty. It is done; 
now order as you please. M. Monk,” added he, turning towards the 
prisoner, “you are in the presence of his majesty Charles II., sovereign 
lord of Great Britain.” 

Monk raised towards the prince his coldly stoical look, and replied: “I 
know no king of Great Britain; I recognise even here no one worthy of bear- 
ing the name of gentleman : for it is in the name of King Charles II. that an 
emissary, whom I took for an honest man, has come and laid an infamous 
snare forme. I have fallen into that snare ; so much the worse for me. 
Now, you the tempter,” said he to the king ; “you the executor,” said he 
to D’Artagnan ; “remember what I am about to say to you : you have my 
body, you may kill it, and I persuade you to do so, for you shall never 
have my mind or my will. And now, ask me not a single word, for from 
this moment I will not open my mouth even to cry out. I have said.” 

And he pronounced these words with the savage, invincible resolution of 
the most mortified Puritan. D’Artagnan looked at his prisoner like aman 


ead ee 


138 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


who knows the value of every word, and who fixes that value according to 
the accent with which it has been pronounced. 3 

“The fact is,” said he, in a whisper to the king, “the general is an 
obstinate man; he would not take a mouthful of bread, nor swallow a 
drop of wine, during the two days of our voyage. Butas from this moment 
it is your majesty who must decide his fate, 1 wash my hands of him.” 

Monk, erect, pale, and resigned, waited with his eyes fixed and his arms 
folded. D’Artagnan turned towards him. “ You will please to understand 
perfectly,” said he, “that your speech, otherwise very fine, does not suit 
anybody, not even yourself. His majesty wished to speak to you, you re- 
fused him an interview ; why, now that you are face to face, that you are 
here by a force independent of your will, why do you confine yourself to 
rigours which I consider as useless and absurd? Speak! what the devil! 
speak, if only to say ‘ No.’” 

Monk did not unclose his lips, Monk did not turn his eyes ; Monk stroked 
his moustache with a thoughtful air, which announced that matters were 
going on badly. 

During all this time Charles II. had fallen intoa profound reverie. For 
the first time he found himself face to face with Monk; that is to say, of 
that man he had so much desired to see ; and, with that peculiar glance 
which God has given to eagles and kings, he had fathomed the abyss of 
his heart. He beheld Monk, then, resolved positively to die rather than 
speak, which was not to be wondered at in so considerable a man, the 
wound in whose mind must at the moment have been cruel. Charles I1. 
formed, on the instant, one of those resolutions upon which an ordinary 
man rests his life, a general his fortune, and a king his kingdom. ‘ Mon- 
sieur,” said he to Monk, “‘you are perfectly right upon certain points; I do 
not, therefore, ask you to answer me, but to listen to me.” 

There was a moment’s silence, during which the king looked at Monk, 
who remained impassible. 

“You have made me just now a painful reproach, monsieur,” continued 
the king ; “you said that one of my emissaries had been to Newcastle to 
lay a snare for you, and that, parenthetically, cannot be understood by 
M. d’Artagnan here, and to whom, before everything, I owe sincere thanks 
for his generous, his heroic devotion.” 

D’Artagnan bowed with respect ; Monk took no notice. 

“For M. d’Artagnan—and observe, M. Monk, I do not say this to ex- 
cuse myself,—for M. d’Artagnan,” continued the king, “has gone into 
England on his own proper movement, without interest, without orders, 
without hope, like a true gentleman as he is, to render a service to an un- 
fortunate king, and to add to the illustrious actions of an existence, already 
so well filled, one fine action more.” 

D’Artagnan coloured a little, and coughed to keep his countenance. 
Monk did not stir. 

“You do not believe what I tell you, M. Monk,” continued the king. 
“T can understand that,—such proofs of devotion are so rare, that their 
reality may well be put in doubt.” 

‘“Monsieur would do wrong not to believe you, sire,” cried D’Artagnan; 
“for that which your majesty has said is the exact truth, and the truth so 
exact that it appears, in going to fetch the general, 1 have done something 
which sets everything wrong. In truth, if it be so, I am in despair.” 

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the king, pressing the hand of the mus- 
keteer, “ you have obliged meas much asif you had promoted the success 
of my cause, for you have revealed to me an unknown friend, to whom I 


DARTAGNAN’S FEARS. - 139 


Shall ever be grateful, and whom I shall always love.” And the king 
pressed his hand cordially. “And,” continued he, bowing to Monk, “an 
enemy whom I shall henceforth esteem at his proper value.” 

The eyes of the Puritan flashed, but only once, and his countenance, for 
an instant, illumined by that flash, resumed its sombre impassibility. 

““Then, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” continued Charles, “this is what was 
about to happen: M. le Comte de la Fére, whom you know, I believe, has 
set out for Newcastle.” 

“ What, Athos !” exclaimed D’Artagnan. 

“Ves, that was his om de guerre, 1 believe. The Comte dela Fére had 
then set out for Newcastle, and was going, perhaps, to bring the general 
to hold a conference with me or with those of my party, when you violently, 
as it appears, interfered with the negotiation.” 

“ Mordioux /” replied D’Artagnan, “who entered the camp the very 
evening in which I succeeded in getting into it with my fishermen——” 

An almost imperceptible frown on the brow of Monk told D’Artagnan 
that he had surmised rightly. 

“Yes, yes,” muttered he ; “I thought I knew his person ; I even fancied 
I knew his voice. Unlucky wretch that I am! Oh! sire, pardon me! 
I thought I had so successfully steered my barque.” 

“There is nothing ill in it, monsieur,” said the king, “except that the 
general accuses me of having laid a snare for him which is not the case. 
No, general, those are not the arms which I contemplated employing 
with you, as you will soon see. In the meanwhile, when I give you my 
word upon the honour of a gentleman, believe me, monsieur, believe me! 
Now, Monsieur d’Artagnan, a word with you, if you please.” 

“T listen on my knees, sire.” 

“ You are truly at my service, are you not ?” 

“Your majesty has seen I am, too much so.” 

“ That is well ; from a man like you one word suffices. In addition to 
that word you bring actions. General, have the goodness to follow me. 
Come with us, M. d’Artagnan.” 

D’Artagnan, considerably surprised, prepared to obey. Charles II. went 
out, Monk followed him, D’Artagnan followed Monk. Charles took the 
path by which D’Artagnan had come to his abode ; the fresh sea-breezes 
soon saluted the faces of the three nocturnal travellers, and, at fifty paces 
from the little gate which Charles opened, they found themselves upon the 
dune in face of the ocean, which, having ceased to rise, reposed upon the 
shore like a monster fatigued. Charles II. walked pensively along, his 
head hanging down and his hand beneath his cloak. Monk followed him, 
with crossed arms and an uneasy look. D’Artagnan came last, with his 
hand on the hilt of his sword. 

‘““ Where is the boat in which you came, gentlemen ?” said Charles to the 
musketeer. 

“Yonder, sire ; I have seven men and an officer waiting for me in that 
little barque which is lighted by a fire.” 

“Yes, I see ; the boat is drawn up upon the sand ; but you certainly did 
not come from Newcastle in that frail barque ?” 

“No, sire ; I freighted a felucca, on my own account, which is at anchor 
within cannon-shot of the dunes. It was in that felucca we made the 
voyage.” 

“Monsieur,” said the king to Monk, “you are free.” 

However firm of will, Monk could not suppress an exclamation. The 
king added an affirmative motion of his head, and continued: “ We will 


140. THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE., 


waken a fisherman of the village, who will put his boat to sea immediately, 
and will take you back to any place you may command him. M. D’Artag: 
nan here will escort your honour. I place M. D’Artagnan under the safe: 
guard of your loyalty, M. Monk.” 

Monk allowed a murmur of surprise to escape him, and D’Artagnan < 
profound sigh. The king, without appearing to notice either, knocked 
against the deal trellis which inclosed the cabin of the principal fisherman 
inhabiting the dzze. 

“ Hola! Keyser !” cried he, ‘awake !” 

““Who calls me?” asked the fisherman. 

“1, Charles, the king.” 

_ “Ah, my lord !* cried Keyser, rising ready dressed from the sail in which 
he slept, as people sleep in a hammock. “What can I do to serve you ?” 

“Captain Keyser,” said Charles, “ you must set sail immediately. Here 
is a traveller who wishes to freight your barque, and will pay you well ; use 
him well.” And the king drew back a few steps to allow Monk to speak 
(o the fisherman. 

“JT wish to cross over into England,’ said Monk, who spoke Dutch 
enough to make himself understood. 

“This minute,” said the patron, “this very minute, if you wish it.” 

* But will that be long?” said Monk. ) 

*“ Not half an hour, your honour. My eldest son is at this moment 
preparing the boat, as we were going out fishing at three o’clock in the © 
morning.” 

Well, is all arranged?” asked the king, drawing near. 

“All but the price,” said the fisherman ; “yes, sire.” 

“That is my affair,” said Charles, “the gentleman is my friend.” 

Monk started and looked at Charles, on hearing this word. 

“Very well, my lord,” replied Keyser. And at that moment they 
heard Keyser’s elder son, signalling from the shore with the blast of a 
bull’s horn. 

“ Now, gentlemen,” said the king, “ be gone !” 

“Sire,” said D’Artagnan, “will it please your majesty to grant me a few 
minutes? I have engaged men, and I am going without them, I must give 
them notice.” 

“Whistle to them,” said Charles, smiling. 

D’Artagnan, accordingly, whistled, whilst the datvon Keyser replied to 
his son ; and four men, led by Menneville, attended the first summons. 

‘Here is some money on account,” said D’Artagnan, putting into their 
hands a purse containing two thousand five hundred livres in gold. “ Go 
and wait for me at Calais, you know where.” And D’Artagnan heaved a 
profound sigh, as he let the purse fall into the hands of Menneville. 

“ What, are you leaving us ?” cried the men. 

“For a short time,” said D’Artagnan, “ or for a long time, who knows? 
But with 2,500 livres, and the 2,500 you have already received, you are 
paid according to our agreement. We are quits, then, my friends.” 

“But the boat ?” 

“Do not trouble yourself about that.” 

“ Our things are on board the felucca.” 

Go and seek them, and afterwards set off immediately.” 

‘Ves; captain.” 

D’Artagnan returned to Monk, saying—“ Monsieur, I await your orders, 


for I understand we are to go together, unless my company be disagree- 
able to you.” Sint : u DE Rae: 


_— 
DARTAGNAN’S FEARS. r4l 

“On the contrary, monsieur,” said Monk. 

“ Come, gentlemen, on board,” said Keyser’s son. 

Charles bowed to the general with grace and dignity, saying,—“ You 
will pardon me this unfortunate accident, and the violence to which you 
aa been subjected, when you are convinced that I was not the cause of 
them. 

Monk bowed profoundly without replying. On his side, Charles affected 
not to say a word to D’Artagnan in private, but aloud,—“ Once more, 
thanks, monsieur le chevalier,” said he, “thanks for your services. They 
will be repaid you by the Lord God, who, I hope, reserves for me alone 
trials and troubles.” 

Monk followed Keyser, and his son embarked with them. D’Artagnan 
came after, muttering to himself,—“ Poor Planchet ! poor Planchet ! Iam 
very much afraid we have made but a bad speculation,” 


CHAPLERSAXA. 


THE SHARES OF THE COMPANY OF PLANCHET AND CO. RISE AGAIN TO 
PAR. 


DURING the passage, Monk only spoke to D’Artagnan in cases of urgent 
necessity. Thus, when the Frenchman hesitated to come and take his 
repast, a poor repast composed of salt fish, biscuit, and Hollands gin, Monk 
called him, saying,—‘‘ To table, monsieur, to table !” This was all. D’Ar- 
tagnan, from being himself on all great occasions extremely concise, did 
not draw from the general’s conciseness a favourable augury of the result 
of his mission. Now, as D’Artagnan had plenty of time for reflection, he 
battered his brains during this time in endeavouring to find out how Athos 
had seen King Charles, how he had conspired his departure with him, and 
lastly, how he had entered Monk’s camp; and the poor lieutenant of 
musketeers plucked a hair from his moustache every time he reflected that 
the cavalier who accompanied Monk on the night of the famous abduc- 
tion, must have been Athos. At length, after a passage of two nights and 
two days, the fatronx Keyser touched the point where Monk, who had given 
all orders during the voyage, had commanded they shouldland. It was 
exactly at the mouth of the little river, near which Athos had chosen his 
abode. Day was declining, a splendid sun, like a red steel buckler, was 
plunging the lower extremity of his disc under the blue line of the sea. 
The felucca was making fair way up the river, tolerably wide in that part, 
but Monk, in his impatience, desired to be landed, and Keyser’s boat 
placed him and D’Artagnan upon the muddy bank, amidst the reeds. 
D’Artagnan, resigned to obedience, followed Monk exactly as a chained 
bear follows his master ; but the position humiliated him not a little, and 
he grumbled to himself that the service of kings was a bitter one, and that 
the best of them was good for nothing. Monk walked with long and hasty 
strides ; it might be thought that he did not yet feel certain of having re- 
gained English land. They had already begun to perceive distinctly a 
few of the cottages of the sailors and fishermen spread over the little quay 
of this humble port, when, all at once, D’Artagnan cried out,—“ God par- 
don me, there is a house on fire !” 

Monk raised his eyes, and perceived there was, in fact, a house which 
the flames were beginning to devour. It had begun at a little shed belong- 
ing to the house, the roof of which it had seized upon. The fresh evening 
breeze agitated the fic The two travellers quickened their steps, hearing 


142 “THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. \ 
loud cries, and seeing, as they drew nearer, soldiers with their glittexing 
arms pointing towards the house on fire. It was doubtless this menacing 
occupation which had made them neglect to signalise the felucca. Monk 
stopped short for an instant, and, for the first time, formulated his thoughts 
with words. “Eh! but,” said he, “ perhaps they are not my soldiers, but 
Lambert’s.” 

These words contained at once a pain, an apprehension, and a reproach 
perfectly intelligible to D’Artagnan. In fact, during the general’s absence, 
Lambert might have given battle, conquered, and dispersed the parlia- 
ment’s army, and taken with his own the place of Monk’s army, deprived 
of its strongest support. At this doubt, which passed from the mind of 
Monk to his own, D’Artagnan made this reasoning :—“‘One of two things 
is going to happen ; either Monk has spoken correctly, and there are no 
longer any but Lambertists in the country—that is to say, enemies who 
would receive me wonderfully well, since it is to me they owe their victory; 
or nothing is changed, and Monk, transported with joy at finding his camp 
still in the same place, will not prove too severe in his settlement with me.” 
Whilst thinking thus, the two travellers advanced, and began to find, 
themselves engaged in a little knot of sailors, who looked on with sorrow 
at the burning house, but did not dare to say anything, on account of the 
menaces of the soldiers. Monk addressed one of these sailors ;—‘‘ What 
is going on here ?” asked he. 

‘“* Monsieur,” replied the man, not recognising Monk as an officer, under | 
the thick cloak which enveloped him, “ that house was inhabited by a 
foreigner, and this foreigner became suspected by the soldiers. Then they 
wanted to get into his house under the pretence of taking him to the 
camp; but he, without being frightened by their numbers, threatened 
death to the first who should cross the threshold of his. door; and as 
there was one who did venture, the Frenchman stretched him on the earth 
with a pistol-shot.” 

A Hit ' he is a Frenchman is he?” said D’Artagnan rubbing his hands. 
ood !” 

“‘ How good 2” replied the fisherman. 

“No, I don’t mean that.—Next ?>—my tongue tripped.” 

6“ : 5 ry : 

Next, monsieur?—why, the other men became as enraged as so 
many lions ; they fired more than a hundred shots at the house ; but the 
Frenchman was sheltered by the wall, and every time they tried to enter 
by the door they met with a shot from his lackey, whose aim is deadly, 
dye see? Every time they threatened the window, they met with a 
pistol-shot from the master. Look and count—there are seven men down.” 

“Ah! my brave compatriot,” cried D’Artagnan, “ wait a little—wait a 
little. I will be with you ; and we will give an account of all this canazlle,” 

“One instant, monsieur,” said Monk, “ wait,” 

66 Long re 

“No; only the time to ask a question.” Then, turning towards the 
sailor, “ My friend,” asked he, with an emotion which, in spite of all his 
ft Ses he could not conceal, “Whose soldiers are these, pray 
tell me: 

“Whose should they be but that madman, Monk’s ?” 

‘ There has been no battle, then ?” 

‘A battle, yes! but what good? Lambert’s army is melting away like 
snow in April. All come to Monk, officers and soldiers, In a week 
Lambert won’t have fifty men left.” 


The fisherman was interrupted bya fresh salvo of musketry discharged 


THE SHARES OF THE COMPANY RISE AGAIN. 143 
= 

against the hoe and by another pistol-shot which replied to the salvo, 

and struck dow ite most daring of the aggressors. The rage of the 

Soldiers was at a ‘sight. The fire still continued to increase, and a crest: 

of flam Ww hirled and spread over the roof of the house. D’Ar- 

€ and smc P 
tagnan could no PSer Contain himself. “ Aordioux /” said he to Monk, 
Slancing at Ha ays; “are you a general, and allow your men to 
urn houses ~~ assassinate people, while you look on and warm your 
andsuc the blaze of the conflagration? JA~lordioux/ you are not a 
"ma 

“patience, monsieur, patience !” said Monk, smiling. 

“ Patience ! yes, until that brave gentleman is roasted—is that what 
you mean?” And D’Artagnan rushed forward. 

** Remain where you are, monsieur,” said Monk, in a tone of command. 
‘And he advanced towards the house, just as an officer had approached it, 

saying to the besieged: “ The house is burning, you will be grilled within 
an hour! There is still time—come, tell us what you know of General 
Monk, and we will spare your life. Reply, or by St. Patrick——” 

The besieged made no answer ; he was no doubt reloading his pistol. 

_ “A reinforcement is gone for,” continued the officer ; “in a quarter of 
an hour there will be a hundred men round your house.” 

“T reply to you,” said the Frenchman. ‘“ Let your men be sent away ; 
I will come out freely and repair to the camp alone, or else I will b 
killed here |” 

“Mille tonnerres !” shouted D’Artagnan; “why that’s the voice 
Athos! AA, canailles !? and the sword of D’Artagnan flamed fron 
sheath. Monk stopped him, and advanced himself, exclaiming, 
sonorous voice: “ Hola! what is going on here? Digby, whence i 
fire ? why these cries ?” 

“ The general !” cried Digby, letting the point of his sword fall. 

eri he general ! !” repeated the soldiers. 

“Well, what is there so astonishing in that ?” said Monk, in a caj 
Then, silence being re-established—“ Now,” said he, “ who lit th; 

The soldiers hung down their heads. 

“What! do I ask a question, and nobody answers me?” sz 
“What! do I find a fault, and nobody repairs it? The fire is st; 
I believe.” 

Immediately the twenty men rushed forward, seizing pails, 
barrels, and extinguishing the fire with as much ardour as 
instant before, employed in promoting it. But already, anc 
rest, D’Artagnan had applied a ladder to the house, crying 
I, D’Artagnan! Do not kill me, my dearest friend!” A 
the comte was clasped in his arms. 

In the meantime, Grimaud, preserving his calm air, di 
tification of the ground-floor, and after having opened th 
his arms crossed, quietly on the sill. Only, at hearing t 
nan, he had uttered an exclamation of surprise. 
euished, the soldiers presented themselves, Digby at 

* General,” said he, “excuse us ; what we have 
your honour, whom we thought lost.” 

You are mad, gentlemen. Lost! Is a man 
not, by chance, to be permitted to be absent, 
without giving formal notice? Do you, by cl, 
from the city? Is a gentleman, my friend, 
trapped, and threatened with death because 


144 _ THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 

} Bait an 
fies that word, suspected? Curse me iif I don’t have eveone of you shot 
that the brave gentleman has left alive? = | __-* é 

“General,” said Digby, piteously, “there were tw@y-cight of us, and 
see, there are eight on the ground.” ae 

“ I authorise M. le Comte de la Fére to send the twer to join the eight,” 
said Monk, stretching out his hand to Athos. “ Let uf return to camp. ¢ 
Monsieur Digby, you will consider yourself under arre turing a month.” 

“‘ General——” : 

“That is to teach you, monsieur, not to act, another time, Vout 
orders.” 

“I had these of the lieutenant, general.” 

“The lieutenant has no such orders to give you, and he shail be placed 
under arrest, instead of you, if he has really commanded you to burn thig 
gentleman.” 

“He did not command that, general ; he commanded us to bring him to 
the camp ; but the comte was not willing to follow us.” 

“T was not willing that they should enter and plunder my house,” said 
Athos to Monk, with a significant look. 

“ And you were quite right. To the camp,I say.” The soldiers departed 
with dejected looks. “ Now we are alone,” said Monk to Athos, “have th 
goodness to tell me, monsieur, why you persisted in remaining here, whilst 

ou had your felucca——” 
“I waited for you, general,” said Athos. “Had not your honour 
pointed me a meeting in a week ” 
n eloquent look from D’Artagnan made it clear to Monk that these two 
, So brave and so loyal, had not acted in concert for his abduction. He 
already it could not be so. 
onsieur,” said he to D’Artagnan, “ you were perfectly right. Have 
dness to allow me a moment’s conversation with M. le Comte de 
Ph 


jagnan took advantage of this to go and ask Grimaud how he did. 

quested Athos to conduct him to the chamber he lived in. 

namber was still full of smoke and rubbish. More than fifty balls 
d through the windows, and mutilated the walls. They found a 
tand, and materials for writing. Monk took up a pen, wrote a 
signed it, folded the paper, sealed the letter with the seal of his 

issed over the missive to Athos, saying, “ Monsieur, carry, if 
his letter to King Charles IJ., and set out immediately, if 
s you here any longer.” 

sks ?” said Athos. 

man who brought me hither will assist you in transporting 

Be gone, if possible, within an hour.” 

’ said Athos. 

tagnan !” cried Monk from the window. D’Artagnan 

. ‘‘ Embrace your friend and bid him adieu, monsieur ; 

olland.” 

hed D’Artagnan ; “and I” 

vy to follow him, monsieur; but I request you to 
k Will you refuse me ?” 

m at your orders.” 

Athos, and only had time to bid him adieu. 
Then he took upon himself the preparations 

g of the casks on board, and the embarkation 

ysnan by the arm, who was quite amazed and 


MONK REVEALS HIMSELF. 148 


agitated, he led him towards Newcastle. Whilst going along, the general 
leaning on his arm, D’Artagnan could not help murmuring “to himself, — 

““Come, come, it seems to me that the shares of the house of Planchet and 
company are rising.” 


es 


CHAPTER XXXL. 
/ MONK REVEALS HIMSELF. 


D’ARTAGNAN, although he flattered himself with better success, had; 
nevertheless, not too well comprehended his situation. It was a strange 
and grave subject for him to reflect upon—this voyage of Athos into Eng- 
land ; this league of the king with Athos, and that extraordinary combina- 
tion of his design with that of the Comte de la Fére. The best way was 
to let things follow their own train. An imprudence had been committed, 
and, whilst having succeeded as he had promised, D’Artagnan found that 
he had gained no advantage by his success. Since everything was lost, he 
could risk no more. D’Artagnan followed Monk through his camp. The 

pes of the general had produced a marvellous effect, for his people had 

hought him lost. But Monk, with his austere look and icy demeanour, 

| appeared to ask of his eager lieutenants and delighted soldiers the cause 

of all this joy. Therefore to the lieutenants who had come to meet him, 

and who expressed the uneasiness with which they had learnt his 
departure, — 

“Why is. all this?” said he; “am I obliged to render an account of 
myself to you ?” 

“But, your honour, the sheep may well tremble without the shepherd.” 

“Tremble !” replied Monk, with his calm and powerful voice ; ‘ah, 
monsieur, what a word! Curse me, if my sheep have not both teeth and 
claws, I renounce being their shepherd. Ah! you tremble, gentlemen, 
do you ?” 

“ Yes, general, for you.” 

“Oh! pray meddle with your own concerns. If I have not the wit God 
gave to Oliver Cromwell, I have that which He has sent to me: I am 
satisfied with it, however little it may be.” 

The officer made no reply ; and Monk, having imposed silence on his 
people, all remained persuaded that he had accomplished some important 
work, or made some important trial. This was forming a very poor con- 
ception of his patient.and scrupulous genius. Monk, if he had the good 
faith of the puritans, his allies, must have returned thanks with much 
fervour to the patron saint who had taken him from the box of M. d’Artagnan. 
Whilst these things were going on, our musketeer could not help con- 
stantly repeating,—“ God grant that M. Monk may not have as much self- 
love as I have ; for I declare if any one had put me into a coffer with that 
grating over my mouth, and carried me so packed up, like a calf, across 
the seas, I should retain such an ill remembrance of my pious looks in that 
‘coffer, and such an ugly animosity against him who had inclosed me in it, 
I should dread so greatly to see a sarcastic smile blooming upon the face 
of the malicious wretch, or in his attitude any grotesque imitation of my 
position in the box, that, ordioux / I should plunge a good poniard into 
his throat in compensation of the grating, and would nail him down ina 
veritable bier, in remembrance of the false coffin in which I had been left 
to grow mouldy for two days.” And D’Artagnan spoke honestly when he 
spoke thus ; for the skin of our Gascon was avery thin one. Monk, fortu- 

Lo 


146 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


rately, entertained other ideas. He never opened his mouth concerning 
the past to his timid conqueror; but he admitted him very near to his 
person in his labours, took him with him to several reconmaissances, in such 
a way as to obtain that which he evidently warmly desired,—a rehabilita- 
tion in the mind of D’Artagnan. The latter conducted himself like a 
passed master in the art of flattery: he admired all Monk’s tactics, and 
the ordering of his camp ; he joked very pleasantly upon the circumyalla- 
tions of the camp of Lambert, who had, he said, very uselessly given him- 
self the trouble to inclose a camp for twenty thousand men, whilst an acre 
of ground would have been quite sufficient for the corporal and fifty guards 
who would perhaps remain faithful to him. Monk, immediately after his 
arrival, had accepted the proposition made by Lambert the evening before, 
for an interview, and which Monk’s lieutenants had refused, under the pre- 
text that the general was indisposed. This interview was neither long nor 
interesting : Lambert demanded a profession of faith of his rival. The 
latter declared he had no other opinion but that of the majority. Lambert 
asked if it would not be more expedient to terminate the quarrel by an 
alliance than bya battle. Monk thereupon required a week for considera- | 
tion. Now, Lambert could not refuse this ; and Lambert, nevertheless, / 
had come saying, that he should devour the army of Monk. Therefore, at'd 
the end of the interview, which Lambert’s party watched with impatience, } 
nothing was decided—neither treaty nor battle—the rebel army, as M. 

d’Artagnan had foreseen, began to prefer the good cause to the bad one, 

and the parliament, rusfish as it was, to the pompous nothings of the 

designs of Lambert. They remembered, likewise, the good repasts of 

London—the profusion of ale and sherry with which the citizens of London 

paid their friends the soldiers ;—they looked with terror at the black war 

bread, at the troubled waters of the Tweed,—too salt for the glass, not 

enough so for the pot; and they said to themselves, “Are not the roast 

meats kept warm for Monk in London?’ From that time nothing was 

heard of but desertion in Lambert’s army. The soldiers allowed them- 

selves to be drawn away by the force of principles, which are, like dis- 

cipline, the obligatory tie in everybody constituted for any purpose. Monk 

defended the parliament,—Lambert attacked it. Monk had no more 

inclination to support the parliament than Lambert had, but he had it 

inscribed upon his standards, so that all those of the contrary party were 

reduced to write upon theirs, “ Rebellion,” which sounded ill in puritan 

ears. They flocked then from Lambert to Monk, as sinners flock from 

Baal to God. 

Monk made his calculations: at a thousand desertions a day Lambert 
had men enough to last twenty days ; but there is in things which sink 
such a growth of increase and swiftness, which combine with each other, 
that a hundred left the first day, five hundred the second, a thousand the 
third. Monk thought he had obtained his rate. But from a thousand the 
desertion passed quickly on to two thousand, then to four thousand, and, a 
week after, Lambert perceiving that he had no longer the possibility of 
accepting battle, if it were offered to him, took the wise resolution of de- 
camping during the night, to return to London, and be beforehand with 
Monk, in constructing a power with the wreck of the military party. But 
Monk, free and without inquietude, marched towards London as a con- 
queror, augmenting his army from all the floating parties on his passage. | 
He encamped at Barnet, that is to say, within four leagues of the capital, 
cherished by the parliament, which thought it beheld in him a protector, 
and looked for by the people, who were anxious to see him reveal himself ) 


’ 


MONK REVEALS HIMSELF. 147 


that they might judge him. D’Artagnan himself had not been able to 
fathom his tactics: he observed—he admired. Monk could not enter 
London with a settled determination without renouncing civil war. He 
temporised for a short time. Suddenly, without anybody expecting it, 
Monk drove the military party out of London, and installed himself in the 
city amidst the citizens, by order of the parliament ; then, at the moment 
when the citizens were crying out against Monk—at the moment when the 
soldiers themselves were accusing their leader—Monk, finding himself 
certain of a majority, declared to the Rump that it must abdicate—be dis- 
solved—and yield its place to a government which would not be a joke. 
Monk pronounced this declaration, supported by fifty thousand swords, to 
which, that same evening, were united, with hurrahs of delirious joy, the 
five hundred thousand inhabitants of the good cityof London. At length, 
at the moment when the people, after their triumphs and festive repasts in 
the open streets, were looking about for a master, it was affirmed that a 
vessel had left the Hague, bearing Charles II. and his fortunes. 

“ Gentlemen,” said Monk to his officers, “I am going to meet the legiti- 
mate king. He who loves me will follow me.” A burst of acclamations 
welcomed these words, which D’Artagnan did not hear without the greatest 


‘ delight. 


“ Mordtoux !” said he to Monk, “that is bold, monsieur.” 

You will accompany me, will you not?” said Monk, 

“ Pardieu! general. But tell me, I beg, what you wrote by Athos, that 
is to say, the Comte de la Fere—you know—the day of our arrival ?” 

“T have no secrets for you now,” replied Monk. “I wrote these words : 
‘ Sire, I expect your majesty in six weeks at Dover.’” 

“Ah !” said D’Artagnan, “I no longer say it is bold; I say it is well 
played : it is a fine stroke !” 

“You are something of a judge in such matters,” replied Monk. 

And this was the only time the general had ever made an allusion to his 
voyage to Holland. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


ATHOS AND D’ARTAGNAN MEET ONCE MORE AT THE HOSTELRY OF THE 
“CORNE DU CERF.” 


THE king of England made his ev/rée into Dover with great pomp, as he 
afterwards did into London. He had sent for his brothers ; he had brought 
over his mother and sister. England had been for so long a time given 
up to herself—that is to say, to tyranny, mediocrity and nonsense, that 
this return of Charles IJ., whom the English only knew as the son of the 
man whose head they had cut off, was a festival for the three kingdoms. 
Consequently, all the vows, all the acclamations, which accompanied his 
return, struck the young king so forcibly, that he stooped towards the ear 
of James of York, his younger brother, and said, “In truth, James, it ap- 
pears to have been our own fault that we were so long absent from a 
country where we are so much beloved!” The cov/ége was magnificent. 
Beautiful weather favoured the solemnity. Charles had regained all his 
youth, all his good humour; he appeared to be transfigured ; hearts 
seemed to smile beneath him like the sun. Amongst this obstreperous 
crowd of courtiers and worshippers, who did not appear to remember 
they had conducted to the scaffold at Whitehall the father of the new king, 


‘a man, in the garb of a lieutenant of musketeers, looked, with a smile 


1-2 


148 THE PICOMTE DE BRAGELCNNE. 


upon his thin, intellectual lips, sometimes at the people vociferating theit 
benedictions, and sometimes at the prince who pretended emotion, and 
who bowed most particularly to the women, whose douguets were strewed 
before his horse’s feet. ‘“‘ What a fine trade is that of a king!” said this 
man, drawn away by his contemplation, and so completely absorbed, that 
he stopped in the middle of his road, leaving the cor/ége to file past. 
“Now, there is, in good truth, a prince all stitched over with gold and 
diamonds, enamelled with flowers like a spring meadow ; he is about to 
plunge his empty hands into the immense coffer in which his now faith- 
ful—but so lately unfaithful—subjects have amassed one or two cart-loads 
of ingots of gold. They cast douguets enough upon him to smother him ; 
and yet, if he had presented himself to them two months ago, they would 
have sent as many bullets and balls at him as they now throw flowers. 
Decidedly it is worth something to be born in a certain fashion ; with 
submission to the lowly, who pretend that it is of very little advantage to 
them to be born lowly.” The cortége continued to file on, and, with the 
king, the acclamations began to die away in the direction of the palace, 
which, however, did not prevent our officer from being shoved about. 

“ Mordtoux !? continued the reasoner, “these people tread upon my 
toes and look upon me as of very little consequence, or rather of none at 
all, seeing that they are Englishmen and I am aFrenchman. If all these 
people were asked—‘ Who is M. d’Artagnan?’ they would reply, ‘ Vesczo 
vos. But let anyone say to them, ‘There is-the king going by,’ ‘ There 
is M. Monk going by,’ they would run away, shouting—‘* Vive le roi / Vive 
M. Monk / till their lungs were exhausted. And yet,” continued he, sur- 
veying, with that look sometimes so keen and sometimes so proud, the 
diminishing crowd—“ and yet, reflect a little, my good people, on what 
your king has done, on what M. Monk has done, and then think what has 
been done by this poor unknown, who is called M. d’Artagnan ! Itis true 
you do not know him, since he is here unknown, which prevents your 
thinking about the matter. But, bah! what matters it! All that does 
not prevent Charles Il. from being a great king, although he has been 
exiled twelve years, or M. Monk from being a great captain, although he 
did make a voyage to Holland in a box. Well, then, since it is admitted 
that one is a great king and the other a great captain—‘ Hurrah for King 
Charles Il. !—Hurrah for General Monk ?” And his voice mingled with 
the voices of the hundreds of spectators, over which it dominated for a 
moment. Then, the better to play the devoted man, he took off his hat 
and waved it in the air. Some one seized his arm in the very height of 
his expansive loyalism. (In 1660 that was so termed which we now call 
royalism. ) 

“ Athos !” cried D’Artagnan, “youhere !” And the two friends seized 
each other’s hands. 

“You here !—and being here,” continued the musketeer, “ you are not 
in the midst of all those courtiers, my dear comte! What! you, the hero 
of the /éze, you are not prancing on the left hand of the king, as M. Monk 
is prancing on the right? In truth, I cannot comprehend your character, 
nor that of the prince who owes you so much!” 

“Still a railer ! my dear D’Artagnan !” said Athos. ‘ Will you never cor- 
rect yourself of that vile habit ?” 

But, you do not form part of the cordége 2” [<2r BAe 

“T do not, because I was net willing to do so.” i: BOR 

“ And why were you not willing ?” 

“Because I am neither envoy nor ambassador, nor représentative of 


| 


ATHOS AND DARTAGNAN MEET ONCE MORE. 149 


the king of France; and it does not become me to exhibit myself thus 
near the person of another king than the one God has given me for a 
master.” 

“ Mordioux! you came very near to the person of the king, his father.” 

“That was another thing, my friend ; he was about to die.” 

“And yet that which you did for him 2 

“I did because it was my duty to doit. But you knowl hate all osten- 
tation. Let King Charles II. then, who no longer stands in need of me, 
leave me to my repose, and in the shade, that is all I claim of him.” 

D’Artagnan sighed. ; 

“What is the matter with you ?” said Athos. ‘One would say that this 
happy return of the king to London saddens you, my friend; you who 
have done at least as much for his majesty as I have.” 

“Have I not,” replied D’Artagnan, with his Gascon laugh, “ have I not 
done much for his majesty, without anyone suspecting it ?” 

“Ves, yes, but the king is well aware of it, my friend,” cried Athos. 

“He is aware of it!” said the musketeer bitterly, “‘by my faith! I 

did not suspect so, and I was even, a moment ago, trying to forget it 


pat 


“ But he, my friend, will not forget it, I will answer for him.” 
“You tell me that to console me a little, Athos.” 
| “ For what?” 
|  “ Vordioux ! for the loss-of all the expenses I have been at. I have 
ruined myself, my friend, ruined myself for the restoration of this young 
prince who has just passed, capering upon his zsade//e coloured horse.” 

“The king does not know you have ruined yourself, my friend; but he 
knows he owes you much.” 

“ And say, Athos, does that advance me in any respect; for to do you 
justice, you have laboured nobly. But J, I, who in appearance marred 
your combinations, it was I who really made them succeed. Follow my 
calculations closely ; you might not have, by persuasions or mildness, con- 
vinced General Monk, whilst I have so roughly treated this dear general, 
that I furnished your prince with an opportunity of showing himself 
generous : this generosity was inspired in him by the fact of my fortu- 
nate mistake, and Charles is paid by the restoration which Monk has 
brought about.” 

“All that, my dear friend, is strikingly true,” replied Athos. 

“Well, strikingly true as it may be, it is not less true, my friend, that I 
shall return—greatly noticed by M. Monk, who calls me dear capiain all 
day long, although I am neither dear to him nor a captain ;—and strongly 
appreciated by the king, who has already forgotten my name ;—it is not 
less true, I say, that I shall return to my beautiful country, cursed by the 
soldiers I had raised with the hopes of large pay, cursed by the brave 
Planchet, of whom I borrowed a part of his fortune.” 

“ How is that? What the devil had Planchet to do in all this ” 

“ Ay, yes, my friend ; but this king, so spruce, so smiling, so adored, 
M. Monk fancies he has recalled him, you fancy you have supported him, 
I fancy I have brought him back, the people fancy they have re-conquered 
him, he himself fancies he has negotiated so as to be restored ;—and yet, 
nothing of all this is true, for Charles II., king of England, Scotland, and 
Ireland, has been replaced upon the throne by a French grocer, who lives 
in the Rue des Lombards, andis named Planchet.—And such is grandeur ! 
Vanity ! says the Scripture, vanity, all is vanity.” 

Athos could not help laughing at this whimsical outbreak of his friend. 


130  - THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“My dear D’Artagnan,” said he, pressing his hand affectionately, 
should you not exercise a little more philosophy? Is it not some further 
satisfaction to you to have saved my life as you did by arriving so for- 
tunately with Monk, when those damned parliamentarians wanted to 
burn me alive ?” 

“ Well, but you, in some degree, deserved burning a little, my friend.” 

“Howso! What, for having saved King Charles’s million ?’ 

“ What million ?” 

“Ah, that is true! you never knew that, my friend ; but you must not 
be angry, for it was not my secret. That word REMEMBER which the king 
pronounced upon the scaffold.” 

“ And which means souvzens-tot /” renee 
“Exactly. That was signified. Remember there is a million buried in 
the vaults of Newcastle Abbey, and that that million belongs to my son.” 

“Ah! very well, I understand. But what I understand likewise, and 
what is very frightful, is, that every time his majesty Charles I. will think 
of me, he will say to himself: ‘There is the man who was near making 
me lose my crown. Fortunately I was generous, great, full of presence of 
mind.’ This is what will say the young gentleman in a shabby black 
pourpoint, who came to the chateau of Blois, hat in hand, to ask me if i{ 
would grant him access to the king of France.” | 

“T)’Artagnan! D’Artagnan!” said Athos, laying his hand on the shoulder 
of the musketeer, “you are unjust.” 

‘“*T have a right to be so.” 

“ No—for you are ignorant of the future.” 

D’Artagnan looked his friend full in the face, and began to laugh. “In 
truth, my dear Athos,” said he, “‘you have some words so superb, that 
they only belong to you and M. le Cardinal Mazarin.” 

Athos frowned slightly. 

“I beg your pardon,” continued D’Artagnan, laughing, “I beg your 
pardon, if I have offended you. The future! /Vezz/ what pretty words 
are words that promise, and how well they fill the mouth in default of 
other things! Mordioux! After having met with so many who pro- 
mised, when have I found one who performed? But, let that pass !” 
continued D’Artagnan. “ What are you doing here, my dear Athos? Are 
you king’s treasurer ?” 

“ How—why king’s treasurer ?” 

“Well; since the king possesses a million, he must want a treasurer. 
The king of France, although he is not worth a sou, has still an intendant 
of finance, M. Fouquet. It is true, that, in exchange, M. Fouquet, they 
say, has a good number of millions of his own.” 

“Oh ! our million is spent, long ago,” said Athos, laughing in his turn. 

“I understand ; it was frittered away in satin, precious stones, velvet, 
and feathers of all sorts and colours. All these princes and princesses 
stood in great need of tailors and dressmakers. Eh! Athos, do you 
remember what we fellows expended in equipping ourselves for the cam- 
paign of La Rochelle, and to make our appearance on horseback? Two 
or three thousand livres, by my faith! But a king’s robe is more ample, 
it would require a million to purchase the stuff. At least, Athos, if you are 
not treasurer, you are on a good footing at court.” 

“By the faith of a gentleman, I know nothing about it,” said Athos, 
simply. ; 

“What ! you know nothing about it ?” 

“No! I have not seen the king since we left Dover,” 


ATHOS AND DARTAGNAN MEET ONCE MORE. Il 


“ Then he has forgotten you, too! Mordtoux! That is shameful !” 

His majesty has had so much business to transact.” 

“Oh!” cried D’Artagnan, with one of those intelligent grimaces which 
he alone knew how to make, “that is enough to make me recover my 
love for Monseigneur Giulio Mazarini. What, Athos! the king has not 
seen you since ?” “ No.” 

‘And you are not furious ?” 

“J !—why should 1 be? Do you imagine, my dear D’Artagnan, that 
it was on the king’s account I acted as 1 have done? I did not know the 
young man. I defended the father, who represented a principle—sacred 
in my eyes, and I allowed myself to be drawn towards the son, by a sym- 
pathy for this same principle. Besides, he was a worthy knight, a noble 
mortal creature, that father ; do you remember him ?” 

“Yes ; that is true ; he was a brave, an excellent man, who led a sad 
life, but made a fine end.” 

“Well ; my dear D’Artagnan, understand this: to that king, to that 
man of heart, to that friend of my thoughts, if I durst venture to say so, 
I swore, at the last hour, to preserve faithfully the secret of a deposit 
which was to be transmitted to his son, to assist him at his need. This 
young man came to me ; he described his destitution ; he was ignorant 
that he was anything for me, but a lively remembrance of his father. I 
have accomplished towards Charles I]. what 1 promised Charles I. : that 
is all. Of what consequence is it to me, then, whether he be grateful, or 
not! It is to myself I have rendered a service, by relieving myself of 
this responsibility, and not to him.” 

“Well, I have always said,” replied D’Artagnan, with a sigh, “that 
disinterestedness was the finest thing in the world.” 

“Well, and you, my friend,” resumed Athos, “are you not in the same 
situation as myself? If I have properly understood your words, you have 
allowed yourself to be affected by the misfortunes of this young man; that, 
on your part, was much greater than it was upon mine, for | had a duty 
to fulfil ; whilst you were under no obligation to the son of the martyr. 
You had not, on your part, to pay him the price of that precious drop of 
blood which he let fall upon my brow, through the floor of his scaffold. 
That which made you act was heart alone—the noble and good heart 
which you possess beneath your apparent scepticism and sarcastic irony ; 
you have engaged the fortune of a servant, and your own, I suspect, my 
benevolent miser! and your sacrifice is not acknowledged! Of what 
consequence is it? You wish to repay Planchet his money. I can com- 
prehend that, my friend ; for it is not becoming in a gentleman to borrow 
of his inferior, without returning him principal and interest. Well, I will 
sell La Fere, if necessary, and if not, some little farm. You shall pay 
-Planchet, and there will be enough, believe me, of corn left in my granaries 
for us two and Raoul. In this way, my friend, you will owe an obligation 
to nobody but yourself ; and, if I know you well, it will not be a small 
Satisfaction to your mind, to be able to say ‘I have madeaking!? Am 
I right ?” 

“Athos! Athos!” murmured D’Artagnan, thoughtfully, “I have told 
you more than once, that the day on which you shall preach, I will attend 
the sermon; the day on which you shall teii me there is a hell, mordioux | 
I shall be afraid of the gridiron and the forks. You are better than I, or 
rather, better than anybody, and I only acknowledge the possession of one 
merit, and that is, of not being jealous. Except that defect, damme, as 
the English say, if I have not all the rest,” ; 


152 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE,. 


“T know nobody equal to D’Artagnan,” replied Athos; “but here we 
~ ! - 
are, arrived gently at the house I inhabit. Will you come in, my friend ? 

“Eh! why this is the tavern of the ‘Corne du Cerf) I think?” said 
D’Artagnan. 

“I confess I chose it on purpose. I like old acquaintances ; I like to 
sit down on that place, whereon I sank, overcome by fatigue, overwhelmed 
with despair, when you returned on the 31st of January.” . 

“ After having discovered the abode of the masked executioner? Yes, 
that was a terrible day ” # 

‘Come in, then,” said Athos, interrupting him. 

They entered the large apartment, formerly the common one. The 
tavern, in general, and this room in particular, had undergone great 
changes ; the ancient host of the musketeers having become tolerably 
rich for an innkeeper, had closed his shop, and made of this room, of 
which we were speaking, an extrefot for colonial provisions. As for the 
rest of the house, he let it ready furnished to strangers. It was with un- 
speakable emotion D’Artagnan recognised all the furniture of the chamber 
of the first story; the wainscoting, the tapestries, and even that geo- 
graphical chart which Porthos had so fondly studied in his moments of 
leisure. 

“It is eleven years ago,” cried D’Artagnan. “ MWordtoux! it appears to 
mea century !” 

“And to me but a day,” said Athos. ‘Imagine the joy I experience, 
my friend, in seeing you there, in pressing your hand, in casting from me 
sword and poniard, and tasting without mistrust this glass of sherry. And, 
oh ! what still further joy it would be, if our two friends were there, at the 
two angles of the table, and Raoul, my beloved Raoul, in the threshold, 
looking at us with his large eyes, at once so brilliant and so soft !” 

“Yes, yes,” said D’Artagnan, much affected, “that is true. I approve 
particularly of the first part of your thought ; it is very pleasant to smile 
there where we have so legitimately shuddered at thinking that from one 
moment to another M. Mordaunt might appear upon the landing.” 

At this moment the door opened, and D’Artagnan, brave as he was, 
could not restrain a slight movement of fright. Athos understood him, 
and smiling,— 

“It is our host,” said he, “ bringing me a letter.” 

“Yes, my lord,” said the good man; “here is a letter for your honour.” 

“ Thank you,” said Athos, taking the letter without looking at it. “ Tell 
me, my dear host, if you do not remember this gentleman ?” 

The old man raised his head, and looked attentively at D’Artagnan. 

“ No, said he. 

“It is,” said Athos, “one of those friends of whom I have spoken to 
you, and who lodged here with me eleven years ago.” 

“Oh! but,” said the old man, “so many strangers have lodged here !” 

“But we lodged here on the 30th of January, 1649,” added Athos, be- 
lieving he would stimulate the lazy memory of the host by this remark. 

“That is very possible,” replied he, smiling; “but it is so long ago !” 
and he bowed, and went out. 

“Thank you,” said D’Artagnan—“ perform exploits, accomplish revolu- 
tions, endeavour to engrave your name in stone or upon brass with strong 
swords! there is something more rebellious, more hard, more forgetful 
than iron, brass, or stone, and that is, the brain become old of the letter 
of lodgings enriched by his trade ;—he does not know me! Well, I should 
have known him, though.” 


ATHOS AND DARTAGNAN MEET ONCE MORE, 153 


Athos, smiling at his friend’s philosophy, unsealed his letter, 

* Ah !” said he, “a letter from Parry.” 

“Oh! oh!” said D’Artagnan, “read it, my friend, read it! it, no doubt, 
contains news.” . 
' Athos shook his head, and read : 


* MONSIEUR LE COMTE.—The king has experienced much regret at not 
seeing you to-day, near him, at his entrance. His majesty commands me 
to say so, and to recall him to your memory. His majesty will expect you 
this evening, at the palace of St. James’s, between nine and ten o’clock. 

“TI am, with respect, Monsieur le Comte, your honour’s very humble 
and very obedient servant,— PARRY.” 


“You see, my dear D’Artagnan,” said Athos, “we must not despair of 
the hearts of kings.” 

“‘ Not despair ! you have reason to say so !” replied D’Artagnan. 

“Oh! my dear, very dear friend,” resumed Athos, whom the almost 
imperceptible bitterness of D’Artagnan had not escaped. “ Pardon me! 

_can I have unintentionally wounded my best comrade ?” 
, “You are mad, Athos, and to prove it I will conduct you to the palace ; 
to the very gate, I mean ; the walk will do me good.” 

“You will go in with me, my friend, I will speak to his majesty.” 

. “No, no!” replied D’Artagnan, with a true pride, free from all mixture; 

“if there is anything worse than begging yourself, it is making others beg 
for you. Come, let us go, my friend, the walk will be charming ; I will, 
in passing, show you the house of M. Monk, who has detained me with 
him. A beautiful house, by my faith. Being a general in England is 
better than being a maréchal in France, please to know.” 

Athos allowed himself to be led along, made quite sad by D’Artagnan’s 
forced attempts at gaiety. The whole city was in a state of joy ; the two 
friends were jostled at every moment by enthusiasts who required them, 
in their intoxication, to cry out, “ Long live good King Charles !” D’Ar- 
tagnan replied by a grunt, and Athos bya smile. They arrived thus in 
front of Monk’s house, before which, as we have said, they had to pass on 
their way to St. James’s. Athos and D’Artagnan said but little on their 
route, for the simple reason that they would have had so many things to 
talk about if they had spoken. Athos thought that by speaking he should 
evince satisfaction, and that that might wound D’Artagnan. The latter 
feared that in speaking he should allow some little acerbity to steal into 
his words which would render his company unpleasant to his friend. It was 
a singular emulation of silence between contentment and ill-humour. 
'D’Artagnan gave way first to that itching at the tip of his tongue which he 

so habitually experienced. 

‘Do you remember, Athos,” said he, “the passage of the ‘Memoires de 
D’Aubigny,’ in which that devoted servant, a Gascon like myself, poor as 
myself, and, I was going to add, brave as myself, relates instances of the 
meanness of Henry 1V.? My father always told me, I remember, that 
D’Aubigny was a liar. But, nevertheless, examine how all the princes, 
the issue of the great Henry, keep up the character of the race.” 

_“Nonsense !” said Athos, “ the kings of France misers? You are mad, 

my friend.” 

“Oh! you are so perfect yourself, you never agree to the faults of 
others. But, in reality, Henry IV. was covetous, Louis XIII., his son, was 
so likewise ; we know something of that, don’t we? Gaston carried this 
_yice to exaggeration, and has made himself, in this respect, hated by all 


\ 


| 


184, THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. ay 


who surround him. Henriette, poor woman, might well be avaricious, sne 
who did not eat every day, and could not warm herself every winter ; and 
that is an example she has given to her son Charles II., grandson of the | 
great Henry IV., who is as covetous as his mother and his grandfather. 
See if I have well traced the genealogy of the misers ?” 

“‘T)’Artagnan, my friend,” cried Athos, “you are very rude towards that 
eagle race called the Bourbons.” 

“Eh! and I have forgotten the best instance of all—the other grandson 
of the Béarnais, Louis XIV., my ex-master. Well, I hope he is miserly 
enough, who would not lend a million to his brother Charles! Good! I 
see you are beginning to be angry. Here we are, by good luck, close to 
my house, or rather to that of my friend, M. Monk.” 

“My dear D’Artagnan, you do not make me angry, you make me sad ; 
it is cruel, in fact, to see a man of your merit out of the position his ser- 
vices ought to have acquired ; it appears to me, my dear friend, that your 
name is as radiant as the greatest names in war and diplomacy. Tell me 
if the Luynes, the Bellegardes, and the Bassompierres have merited, as 
we have, fortunes and honours? You are right, my friend, a hundred 
times right.” s 

D’Artagnan sighed, and preceding his friend under the porch of the 
mansion Monk inhabited, at the extremity of the city, “ Permit me,” said 

e, “to leave my purse at home; for if in the crowd those clever pick- 
pockets of London, who are much boasted of, even in Paris, were to steal 
from me the remainder of my poor crowns, I should not be able to return 
to France. Now, content I left France, and wild with joy I should return 
to it, seeing that all my prejudices of former days against England are 
returned, accompanied by many others.” 

Athos made no reply. 

“So then, my dear friend, one second, and I will follow you,” said 
D’Artagnan. “I know you are in a hurry to go yonder to receive your 
reward, but, believe me, Iam not less eager to partake of your joy, although 
at a distance. Wait for me.” And D’Artagnan was already passing 
through the vestibule, when a man, half servant, half soldier, who filled in 
Monk’s establishment the doutie functions of porter and guard, stopped 
our musketeer, saying to him, in English : 

“I beg your pardon, my Lord D’Artagnan !” 

“ Well,” replied the latter ; “what is it? Is the general going to dismiss 
me? I only wanted to be expelled by him.” 

These words, spoken in French, made no impression upon the person 
to whom they were addressed, and who himself only spoke an English 
mixed with the rudest Scotch. But Athos was grieved with them, for he 
began to think D’Artagnan was not wrong. | 

sf a Englishman showed D’Artagnan a letter: “From the general,” 
said he. 


“Aye! that’s it, my dismissal !” replied the Gascon. “ Must it be read, 
Athos ?” 

“You must be deceived,” said Athos, “or I know no more honest people 
in the world but you and myself.” 

D’Artagnan shrugged his shoulders and unsealed the letter, whilst the 
impassible Englishman held for him a large lantern, by the light of which 
he was enabled to read it. ' : 

“Well, what have you?” said Athos, seeing the countenance of the 
reader change. 

“ Read it yourself,” said the musketeer, 


( 


. 


| 
\ 


~ ga 


ATHOS AND DARTAGNAN MEET ONCE MORE, 155 


Athos took the paper and read :— 


“ MONSIEUR D’ARTAGNAN,—The king very much regrets you did not 
come to St. Paul’s with his cortége. You have failed with him as you 
failed with me, my dear captain. There is but one means of repairing all 
this. His majesty expects me at nine o’clock at the palace of St. James’s ; 
will you be there at the same time with me? His gracious majesty 
appoints that hour for an audience he grants you,” | 


This letter was from Monk, 


CHP RA ADL 
THE AUDIENCE, 


“ WELL ?” cried Athos, with a mild look of reproach, when D’Artagnan 
had read the letter addressed to him by Monk. 
“ Well!” said D’Artagnan, red with pleasure, and a little with shame. 


--“ To be in such a hurry to accuse the king and Monk was a politeness,— 


“which leads to nothing, it is true, but yet it is a politeness.” 


hr “Thad great difficulty in believing the young prince ungrateful,” said 
it Athos. 


“The fact is, that his present is still too near to his past,” replied 


h p’Artagnan ; “but, after all, everything to the present moment proves 


me right.” 

“TI acknowledge it, my dear friend, I acknowledge it. Ah! there is 
your cheerful look returned. You cannot think how delighted I am.” 

“Thus you see,” said D’Artagnan, “ Charles II. receives M. Monk at 
nine o’clock ; me he will receive at ten; it is a grand audience, ot the sort 
which at the Louvre are called ‘distributions of holy court water.’ Come, 
let us 80 and -place ourselves under the spout, my dear friend! come 
along.’ 

Athos replied nothing ; and both directed their steps, at a quick pace, 
towards the palace of St. James’s, which the crowd still surrounded, to 
catch, through the windows, the shadows of the courtiers, and the reflec- 
tion of the royal person. Eight o’clock was striking, when the two friends 
took their places in the gallery filled with courtiers and politicians. Every 
one gave a glance at these simply-dressed men in foreign habits, at these 
two noble heads so full of character and meaning. On their side, Athos 
and D’Artagnan, having with two looks taken the measure of the whole 


| of the assembly,-resumed their chat. A great noise was suddenly heard 


at the extremity of the gallery,—it was General Monk, who entered, fol- 
lowed by more than twenty officers, all anxious for one of his smiles, for 
he had been the evening before master of all England, and a glorious 
morrow was looked for for the restorer of the family of the Stuarts. 

“Gentlemen,” said Monk, turning round, “ henceforward I beg you to 
remember that I am no longer anything. Lately I commanded the prin- 
cipal army of the republic ; now that army is the king’s, into whose hands 
I am about to replace, at his command, my power of yesterday.” 

Great surprise was painted on the countenances of all, and the circleof 
adulators and suppliants which surrounded Monk an instant before, was 
enlarged by degrees, and finished by being lost in the large undulations of 
the crowd. Monk was going into the antechamber as others did. D’Ar- 
tagnan could not help remarking this to the Comte de la Fére, who 
frowned on beholding it. Suddenly the door of the royal closet opened 


156 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


and the young king appeared, preceded by two officers of his house- 
hold.” 

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said he. “Is General Monk here ?” 

1 sam" here} sire,” replied the old general. 

Charles stepped hastily towards him, and seized his hand with the 
warmest demonstration of friendship. a General,” said the king, aloud, 
“T have just signed your patent,—you are Duke ‘of Albemarle ; and my 
intention is that no one shall equal you in power and fortune in this king~ 
dom, where—the noble Montrose excepted—no one has equalled you in 
loyalty, courage, and talent. Gentlemen, the duke is commander of our 

armies by land and by sea, pay him your respects, if you please, in that 
'character.” 

Whilst every one was pressing round the general, who received all this 
homage without losing his impassibility for an instant, D’Artagnan said 
to Athos: “ When one thinks that this duchy, this command of the land 
and sea forces, all these grandeurs, in a word, have been shut up in a box 
six feet long and three feet wide !——” 

“ My friend,” replied Athos, “ much more imposing grandeurs are con- 
fined to boxes still smaller.—and remain there for ever.” 
All at once, Monk perceived the two gentlemen, who held themselves 
apart until the crowd had diminished ; he made himself a passage towards | 
them, so that he surprised them in the midst of their philosophical reflec- 

tions. ‘‘ Were you speaking of me ?” said he, with a smile. 

“ My lord,” replied Athos, “ we were speaking likewise of God.” 

Monk reflected fora moment, and then replied gaily : “ Gentlemen, let 
us speak.a little of the king likewise, if you please ; for you have, I believe, 
an audience of his majesty.” 

** At nine o’clock,” said Athos. 

** At ten o’clock,” said D’Artagnan. 

“ Let us go into this closet at once,” replied Monk, making a sign to his 
two companions to precede him ; but to which neither would consent. 

The king during this so French debate, had returned to the centre of 
the gallery. 

“Oh! my Frenchmen !” said he, in that tone of careless gaiety which, 
in spite of so much grief and so many crosses, he had never lost. ‘“ My 
Frenchmen ! my consolation!” Athos and D’Artagnan bowed. 

“Duke, conduct these gentlemen into my study. I am at your service, 
messieurs,” added he in French. And he promptly expedited his court, to 
return to his Frenchmen, as he called them. ‘‘ Monsieur d@’Artagnan,” 
said he, as he entered his closet, “‘ I am glad to see you again.” 

“Sire, my joy is at its height at having the honour to salute your 
majesty in your own palace of St. James’s.” 

“Monsieur, you have been willing to render me a great service, and I 
owe you my gratitude for it. If I did not fear to intrude upon the rights © 
of our general commandant, I would offer you some post worthy of you 
near our person.” 

“Sire,” replied D’Artagnan, “I have quitted the service of the king of 
_Siyance) ‘making my prince a promise not to serve any other king.” 

le Humph ! !” said Charles, “I am sorry to hear that; I should like to do 
mich for you ; you please me greatly.” ——“ Sire——? 

“But, let us see,” said Charles, with a smile, “if we cannot make you 
break your word. Duke, assist me. If you were offered, that is to say, if 
I offered you the chief command of my musketeers ?” D’Artagnan bowed 
lower than before. 


THE AUDIENCE. iy 


“7 should have the regret to refuse what your gracious majesty would 
offer me,” said he ; “a gentleman has but his word, and that word, as I have 
had the honour to tell your majesty, is engaged to the king of France.” 

““We will say no more about it, then,” said the king, turning towards 
Athos, and leaving D’Artagnan plunged in the deepest pangs of disap- 
pointment. 

“Ah! I said so!” muttered the musketeer. “Words! words! Court 
holy water! Kings have always a marvellous talent for offering us that 
which they know we will not accept, and in appearing generous without 
risk. So be it !—triple fool that I was to have hoped fora moment !” 

During this time, Charles took the hand of Athos. ‘‘Comte,” said he, 
“you have been to me a second father ; the services you have rendered 
me are above allprice. I have thought of a recompense, notwithstanding. 
You were created by my father a Knight of the Garter—that is an order 
which all the kings of Europe cannot bear; by the queen regent, Knight 
of the Holy Ghost—-which is an order not less illustrious ; I join to it that 
of the Golden Fleece, which the king of France has sent.me, to whom the 
king of Spain, his father-in-law, gave two on the occasion of his marriage ; 

ut, in return, I have a service to ask of you.” 

~ “Sire,” said Athos, with confusion, “the Golden Fleece for me! when 
the king of France is the only person in my country who enjoys that dis- 
tinction ?” 

__ “I wish you to be in your country and elsewhere the equal of all 
‘those whom sovereigns have honoured with their favour,” said Charles, 
drawing the chain from his neck ; “‘and I am sure, comte, my father smiles 
on me from the depths of his tomb.” 

“It is unaccountably strange,” said D’Artagnan to himself, whilst his 
friend, on his knees, received the eminent order which the king conferred 
on him—“ It is almost incredible that I have always seen showers of pro- 
sperity fall upon all who surrounded me, and that not a drop ever reached 
me! If I were a jealous man, it would be enough to make one tear one’s 
hair, Jarvole dhonneur |” 

Athos rose from his knees, and Charles embraced him tenderly, 
** General !” said he to Monk—then stopping with a smile, “ Pardon me, 
duke I mean. No wonder if I mistake ; the word duke is too short for 
me, I always seek for some title to elongate it. I should wish to see you 
so near my throne, that I might say to you, as to Louis XIV., my brother ! 
Oh ! I have it ; and you will be almost my brother, for I make you viceroy 
of Ireland and Scotland, my dear duke. So, after that fashion, hence- 
forward I shall not make a mAtake.” 

The duke seized the hand of the king, but without enthusiasm, without 
joy, as he did everything. His heart, however, had been moved by this 
Jast favour. Charles, by skilfully husbanding his generosity, had left the 
duke time to wish, although he might not have wished for so much as was 
given him. 

“ Mordioux !? grumbled D’Artagnan, “there is the shower beginning 
again ! Oh! it is enough to turn one’s brain ! !” and he turned away with an 
air so sorrowful and so comically piteous, that the king, who caught it, 
could not restrain a smile, Monk was preparing to leave the closet to 
take leave of Charles. 

“What! my trusty and well-beloved !” said the king to the duke, “ are 
you going ?” 

“Tf it please your majesty, for in truth I am tired. The emotions of the 
day have worn me out: I stand in need of repose.” , 


18 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE: 


“But,” said the king, “you are not going without M. @Artagnan, f 
hope.” 

“Why not, sire ?” said the old warrior. 

“Well! you know very well why,” said the king. 

Monk looked at Charles with astonishment. 

“Oh! it may be possible; but if you forget, you, M. d’Artagnan, do, 
not.” | 

Astonishment was painted on the face of the musketeer. | 

“Well, then, duke,” said the king, “Do you not lodge with M. d@’Ar- | 
tagnan? ?” | 

“T have the honour to offer M. d’Artagnan a lodging ; yes, sire.” 

“ That idea is your own, and yours solely ?” 

“ Mine and mine only, yes, sire.” 

“Well! but it could not be otherwise—the prisoner is always at the 
home of his conqueror.” 

Monk coloured in his turn. “Ah! that is true,” said he; “I am M. 
d’Artagnan’s prisoner.” 

® Without doubt, duke, since you are not yet ransomed; but take no 
heed of that ; it was I who took you out of M. d’Artagnan’s hands, and i 
is I who will pay your ransom.’ 

The eyes of D’Artagnan regained their gaiety and their brilliancy. The 
Gascon began to comprehend. Charles advanced towards him. 

“The general,” said he, “is not rich, and cannot pay you what he is 
worth. I am richer, certainly ; ; but now that he is a duke, and if not a 
king, almost a king, he is wortha sum I could not perhaps pay. Come, 
M. d’Artagnan, be moderate with me: how much do I owe you?” 

D’Artagnan, delighted at the turn things were taking, but not for a 
moment losing his self possession, replied,—‘ Sire, your majesty has no 
occasion to be alarmed. When I had the good fortune to take his grace, 
M. Monk was only a general; it is therefore only a general’s ransom that 
isdue tome. But if the general will have the kindness to deliver me his 
sword, I shall consider myself paid ; for there is nothing in the world but 
the general’s sword which is worth so much as himself.” 

“ Odds fish! as my father said,” cried Charles. “ That is a gallant pro- 
posal, and a gallant man, is he not, duke?” 

“Upon my honour, yes, sire,” and he drew his sword. “ Monsieur,” 
said he to D’Artagnan, “here is what you demand. Many may have 
handled a better blade ; but however modest mine may be, I have never 
surrendered it to any one,’ 

D’Artagnan received with pride the sword which had just made a king. 

“Oh! oh!” cried Charles II. ; “what ! a sword that has restored me to 
my throne—to go out of the kingdom and not, one day, to figure among 
the crown jewels! No, on my soul! that shall not be! Captain d’Artag- 
nan, I will give you two hundred thousand livres for your sword! if that 
is too little, say so.’ 

“It is too little, sire,” replied D’Artagnan, with inimitable seriousness. 
“Tn the first place, I do not at all wish to sell i it ; but your majesty desires 
me to do so, and that is anorder. I obey, then ; - but the respect I owe to 
the illustrious warrior who hears me, commands me to estimate at a third 
more the reward of my victory. I ask then three hundred thousand livres 
for the sword, or I will give it to your majesty fornothing.” And taking it 
by the point he presented it to the king. Charles broke into hilarious 
laughter. . 


A gallant man, and a joyous companion ! Odds fish ! is he not, duke? 


THE AUDIENCE. 159 
is he not, comte? He pleases me! I like him! Here, Chevalier d’Artag- 
nan, take this.” And going to the table, he took a pen and wrote an order 
upon his treasurer for three hundred thousand livres. 

D’Artagnan took it, and turning gravely towards Monk. “I have still 
asked too little, I know,” said he, “but believe me, monsieur le duc, I 
would rather have died than allow myself to be governed by avarice.” 

The king began to laugh again, like the happiest cockney of his king- 
dom. 

“You will come and see me again before you go, chevalier ?” said he, 
“T shall want to lay in a stock of gaiety now my Frenchmen are leaving 
me.” 

“Ah! sire, it shall not be with the gaiety as with the duke’s sword ; 
I will give it to your majesty gratis,” replied D’Artagnan, whose feet 
scarcely seemed to touch the ground. 

“And you, comte,” added Charles, turning towards Athos, “come again, 
also ; I have an important message to confide to you. Your hand, duke.” 
\ Monk pressed the hand of the king. 

. “Adieu! gentlemen,” said Charles, holding out each of his hands to the 

two Frenchmen, who carried them to their lips. 

A tied said Athos, when they were out of the palace, “are you satis- 
e te 

“ Hush ?” said D’Artagnan, wild with joy, “Iam not yet returned from 
' the treasurer’s—the spout may fall upon my head.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 
OF THE EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES, 


D’ARTAGNAN lost no time, and as soon as the thing was suitable and 
opportune, he paid a visit to the lord-treasurer of his majesty. He had then 
the satisfaction to exchange a piece of paper, covered with very ugly 
writing, for a prodigious number of crowns, recently stamped with the 
effigies of his very gracious majesty Charles II. D’Artagnan easily re- 
covered his self-possession : and yet, upon this occasion, he could not help 
evincing a joy which the reader will perhaps comprehend, if he deigns to 
have some indulgence for a man who, since his birth, had never seen so 
many pieces and rouleaux of pieces juxta-placed in an order truly agree- 
able to the eye. The treasurer placed all these rouleaux in bags, and 
closed each bag with a stamp of the arms of England, a favour which 
treasurers do not accord to everybody. Then, impassibie, and just as 
polite as he ought to be towards a man honoured with the friendship of 
the king, he said to D’Artagnan : 

“Take away your money, sir.” Your money! These words made a 
thousand chords vibrate in the heart of D’Artagnan, which he had never 
felt before. He had the bags packed in a small cart, and returned home 
meditating profoundly. A man who possesses three hundred thousand 
livres can no longer expect to wear a smooth brow ; a wrinkle for every 
hundred thousand livres is not too much. D’Artagnan shut himself up, ate 
no dinner, closed his door against everybody, and, with a lighted lamp, 
and a loaded pistol on the table, he watched all night, ruminating upon 
the means of preventing these lovely crowns, which from the coffers of the 
king had passed into his coffers, from passing from his coffers into the 
pockets of any thief whatever. The best means discovered by the Gascon 
was to enclose his treasure, for the present, under locks so solid that no 


160 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE., 


wrist could break them, and so complicated that no master-key could 
open them. D’Artagnan remembered that the English are passed masters 
in mechanics and conservative industry ; and he determined to go in the 
morning in search of a mechanic who would seil him a strong box. He 
did not go far, the sieur Will Jobson, dwelling in Piccadilly, listened to 
his propositions, comprehended his wishes, and promised to make him a 
safety-lock that should relieve him from all future fear. 

“T will give you,” said he, “a piece of mechanism entirely new. At the 
first serious attempt upon your lock, an invisible plate will open of itself 
and vomit forth a pretty copper bullet of the weight of a mark—-which will 
knock down the intruder, and not without a loud report. What do you 
think of it ?” 

“ ] think it very ingenious,” cried D’Artagnan ; “ the little copper bullet 
pleases me mightily. So now, monsieur the mechanic, the terms °” 

‘A fortnight for the execution, and fifteen hundred livres, payable on 
delivery,” replied the artizan. 

D’Artagnan’s brow darkened. A fortnight was delay enough to allow 
the thieves of London time to remove all occasion for the strong box. As 
to the fifteen hundred livres—that would be paying too dear for what a 
little vigilance would procure him for nothing. 

“T will think of it,” said he ; “thank you, monsieur.” And he returned 
home at full speed ; nobody had yet touched his treasure. That same day, 
Athos paid his friend a visit, and found him so thoughtful that he could 
not help expressing his surprise. : 

“ How is this ?” said he, “ you are rich and not gay—you, who were so 
anxious for wealth !” 

“My friend, the pleasures to which we are not accustomed oppress us 
more than the griefs we are familiar with. Give me your opinion, if you 
please. I can ask you, who have always had money: when we have 
money, what do we do with it ?°—-—“ That depends.” 

“What have you done with yours, seeing that it has not made you a 
miser or a prodigal? For avarice dries up the heart, and prodigality 
drowns it—is not that so ?” . 

“Fabricius could not have spoken more justly. But, in truth, my money 
has never been a burden to me.” 

“How so? Do you place it out at interest ?” 

“No; you know I have a tolerably handsome house; and that house | 
composes the better part of my property.” 

“‘T know it does.” 

“So that you can be as rich as I am, and, indeed, more rich, whenever 
you like, by the same means.” 

‘“ But your rents,—do you lay them by ?”——-—“ No.” 

“ What do you think of a chest concealed in a wall ?” 

“I never made use of such a thing.” . 

“Then you must have some confidant, some safe man of business. who 
pays you interest at a fair rate.” 

““ Not at all.” 

‘“ Good heavens ! what do you do with it, then ”” 

“I spend all I have, and I only have what I spend, my dear D’Artagnan.” 

“Ah! that may be. But you are something of a prince ; fifteen or six- 
teen thousand livres melt away between your fingers ; and then you have 
expenses and appearances——” 

“Well, I don’t see why you should be less of a noble than I am, my 
friend ; your money would be quite sufficient.” 


OF THE EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES. 161 


* Three hundred thousand livres! Two-thirds too much !” 

“T beg your pardon—did you not tell me ?—I thought I heard you say— 
I fancied you had a partner——” 

“ Ah! Mordioux ! that’s true,” cried D’Artagnan, colouring, “there is 
Planchet. I had forgotten Planchet, upon my life! Well! there are my 
hundred thousand crowns broken into. . That’s a pity! it-;was around sum, 
‘and sounded well.—That is true, Athos ; Iam no longer rich. What a 
‘memory you have !” 

“Tolerably good ; yes, thank God !” 

“Bravo, Planchet !” grumbled D’Artagnan; “he has not had a bad 
dream! Whataspeculation! /este/ Well! what is said is said !” 
| “ How much are you to give him ?” 

_ “Oh!? said D’Artagnan, “he is not a bad fellow; I shall arrange 

‘matters with him. I have had a great deal of trouble, you see, and ex- 

'penses ; all that must be taken into account.” 

_ “My dear friend, I can depend upon you, and have no fear for the 

worthy Planchet ; his interests are better in your hands than in his own, 

But now that you have nothing more to do here, we will be gone, if you 
lease. You can go and thank his majesty, ask if he has any commands, 
nd in six days, we may be able to get sight of the towers of Notre Dame.” 

“My friend, I am most anxious to be off, and will go at once and pay 
my respects to the king.” 

“1,” said Athos, “am going to call upon some friends in the city, and 
shall be then at your service.” 

* Will you lend me Grimaud !” 

“With all my heart. What do you want to do with him ?” 

‘Something very simple, and which will not fatigue him ; I will only 
beg him to take charge of my pistols, which lie there on the table near that 
coffer.” 

“Very well !” replied Atlios, imperturbably. 

* And he will not stir, will he °” 

* Not more than the pistols themselves.” 

“Then I will go and take leave of his majesty. Am revoir !” 

D’Artagnan arrived at St. James’s, where Charles II., who was busy 
writing, kept him in the antechamber a full hour. Whilst walking about 
in the gallery, from the door to the window, from the window to the door, 
he thought he saw a cloak like Athos’ cross the vestibule ; but at the 

| moment he was going to ascertain if it were he, the usher summoned him 
to his majesty’s presence. Charles II. rubbed his hands at receiving the 
thanks of our friend. 

“ Chevalier,” said he, “you are wrong in expressing gratitude to me; I 
have not paid you a quarter of the value of the history of the box into which 
you put the brave general—the excellent Duke of Ablemarle, I mean.” 
And the king laughed heartily. 

D’Artagnan did not think it proper to interrupt his majesty, and bowed 
with much modesty. 

“ Apropos,” continued Charles, “do you think my dear Monk has really 
pardoned you ?” 

“Pardoned me! yes, I hope so, sire !” 

“Eh !—but it was a cruel trick! Odds fish! to pack up the first per- 

' sonage of the English revolution like a herring. In your place, I would, 
not trust him, chevalier.” 

“Put, sire——” 

“Yes, I know very well that Monk calls vou his friend. But he has teo 

ifs 


162 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE., 


penetrating an eye not to have a memory, and too lofty a brow not to be 
very proud, you know, grande supercilium.” 

“I certainly will learn Latin,” said D’Artagnan to himself. asi 

“But stop,” cried the merry monarch, “ I must manage your reconcilia- 
tion ; I know how to set about it ; so——” : 

D’Artagnan bit his moustache. “ Will your majesty permit me to tell 
you the truth ?” THs Ee | 

* Speak, chevalier, speak.” ; 

“Well, sire, you alarm me greatly. If your majesty undertakes the 
affair, as you seem inclined to do, I am a lost man; the duke will have me 
assassinated.” | 

The king burst intoa fresh roar of laughter, which changed D’Artagnan’s 
alarm into downright terror. : 

“Sire, I beg you to allow me to settle this matter myself, and if your 
majesty has no further need of my services 4 

“No, chevalier. What, do you want to leave us ?” replied Charles, with | 
an hilarity that grew more and more alarming. 

“‘ If your majesty has no more commands for me.” 

Charles became more serious. 

% “One single thing. See my sister, the lady Henrietta. Do you kno 
er!” 

“No, sire, but—an old soldier like me, is not an agreeable spectacle for 
a young and gay princess.” c 

“Ay! but my sister must know you; she must, at her need, have you 
to depend upon.” 

“Sire, every one that is dear to your majesty will be sacred to me.” 

“Very well!—Parry! Come here, Parry.” 

The lateral door opened, and Parry entered, his face beaming with 
pleasure as soon as he saw D’Artagnan. 

“What is Rochester doing ?” said the king. 

“He is upon the canal with the ladies,” replied Parry. 

** And Buckingham ?” 

“He Is there also.” 

“That is well. You will conduct the chevalier to Villiers ; that is, the 
Duke of Buckingham, chevalier: and beg the duke to introduce M. d’Ar- 
tagnan to the princess Henrietta.” | 

Parry bowed and smiled to D’Artagnan. 

“ Chevalier,” continued the king, “this is your parting audience, you can | 
afterwards set out as soon as you please.” 

“Sire, I thank you.” 

“ But be sure you make your peace with Monk !” 

“ Oh, sire——” 

i YOu know there is one of my vessels at your disposal 

Sire, you overpower me, I cannot think of putting your majesty’s 
Officers to inconvenience on my account.” 

ae slapped D’Artagnan upon the shoulder. 

, obody will be inconvenienced on your account, chevalier, but for that 
of an ambassador I am about sending to France, and to whom you will 
ye willingly as a companion, I fancy, for you know him.” 

D’Artagnan appeared astonished. , 

He isa certain Comte de la Fére,—he you call Athos,” added the king: 
terminating the conversation, as he had begun it by a joyous burst of 
laughter. -“ Adieu, chevalier, adieu. Love me as f fove you.” And 
thereupon, making a sign to Parry to ask if there were any one waiting for 


{ 


\ 


| 


a 


UPON THE CANAL, 163 


him in the adjoining closet, the king disappeared into that closet, leaving 
the place to the chevalier, perfectly astonished with this singular audience. 
ee old man took his arm in a friendly way, and led him towards the 
garden, 


ae til 


CHAPTER XXXV. 
UPON THE CANAL, 


UPON thie canal of waters of an opaque green, bordered with marble, upon 
which time had already scattered black spots and tufts of mossy grass, 
there glided majestically a long flat barque, davorsée with the arms of 
England, surmounted by a dais, and carpeted with long damasked stuffs, 
which trailed their fringes in the water. Eight rowers, leaning lazily to 
their oars, made it move upon the canal with the graceful slowness of the 
swans, which, disturbed in their ancient possessions by the approach of 
| « @ barque, looked from a distance at this splendid and noisy pageant. 
We say noisy—for the barque contained four players upon the guitar and 
he lute, two singers, and several courtiers, all sparkling with gold and 
recious stones, and showing their white teeth in emulation of each other, 
Yo please the lady Henrietta Stuart, grand-daughter of Henry 1V., daughter 
‘of Charles J., and sister of Charles II., who occupied the seat of honour 
under the dais of the barque. We know this young princess, we have seen 
her at the Louvre with her mother, wanting wood, wanting bread, and fed 
by the coadjuteur and the parliament. She had, therefore, like her 
brothers, passed through a troublous youth ; then, all at once, she had just 
awakened from a long and horrible dream, seated on the steps of a throne, 
surrounded by courtiers and flatterers. Like Mary Stuart on leaving 
prison, she aspired not only for life and liberty, but for power and wealth. 
The lady Henrietta, in growing, had attained remarkable beauty, which 
the recent restoration had rendered celebrated. Misfortune had taken 
from her the lustre of pride, but prosperity had restored it to her. She 
was resplendent, then, in her joy and her happiness,—like those hot-house 
flowers which, forgotten during a night of the first frosts of autumn, have 
hung their heads, but which on the morrow, warmed once more by the 
atmosphere in which they were born, rise again with greater splendour 
than ever. Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, son of him who played so con- 
spicuous a part in the early chapters of this history,—Villiers of Bucking- 
ham, a handsome cavalier, melancholy with women, a jester with men,— 
and Wilmot, lord Rochester, a jester with both sexes, were standing at this 
moment before the lady Henrietta, disputing the privilege of making her 
smile. As to that young and beautiful princess, reclining upon a cushion 
of velvet bordered with gold, her hands hanging listlessly so as to dip in 
the water, she listened carelessly to the musicians without hearing them, 
and heard the two courtiers without appearing to listen to them. ‘This lady 
Henrietta—this charming creature—this woman who joined the graces of 
France to the beauties of England, not having yet loved, was cruel in her 
coquetry. The smile, then,—that innocent favour of young girls—did not 
even enlighten her countenance ; and if, at times, she did raise her eyes, it 
was to fasten them upon one or other of the cavaliers with such a fixity, 
that their gallantry, bold as it generally was, took the alarm, and became 
timid. 
In the meanwhile the boat continued its course, the musicians made a 
great noise, and the courtiers began, like them, to ke out of breath, Be- 


il ¢ 


164 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE., 


sides, the excursion became doubtless monotonous to the princess, for, all 
at once, shaking her head with an air of impatience—“ Come, gentlemen, 
—enough of this ;—let us land.” 

“ Ah, madam,” said Buckingham, “we are very unfortunate! We have 
not succeeded in making the excursion agreeable to your royal high- 
ness.” 

“My mother expects me,” replied the princess ; “and I must frankly’ 
admit, gentlemen, I am exnuyée.” And whilst uttering this cruel word, 
Henrietta endeavoured to console by a look each of the young men, who_ 


appeared terrified at such frankness. The look produced its effect—the 
two faces brightened ; but immediately, as if the royal coquette thought 
she had done too much for simple mortals, she made a movement, turned 
her back to both her adorers, and appeared plunged in a reverie in which 
it was evident they had no part. : z 

Buckingham bit his lips with anger, for he was truly in love with the 
lady Henrietta, and, in that case, took everything in a serious light.’ 
Rochester bit his lips likewise ; but as his wit always dominated over . 
heart, it was purely and simply to repress a malicious smrle. The prince | 
was then allowing the eyes she turned from the young nobles to wand ¢ 
over the green and flowery turf of the park, when she perceived Parry ar, 
D’Artagnan at a distance. 

“Who is coming yonder?” said she. . ' 

The two young men turned round with the rapidity of lightning. 

“Parry,” replied Buckingham ; “nobody but Parry.” 

“*T beg your pardon,” said Rochester, “but I think he has a companion.” 

“Yes,” said the princess, at first with languor, but then—“ What mean 
those words, ‘ Nobody but Parry ; say, my lord ?” 

“* Because, madam,” replied Buckingham, piqued, “ because the ‘faithful 
Parry, the wandering Parry, the eternal Parry, is not, I believe, of much 
consequence.” 

“You are mistaken, duke. Parry—the wandering Parry, as you call him 
—has always wandered for the service of my family, and the sight of that 
old man always gives me satisfaction.” 

The lady Henrietta followed the usual progress of pretty women, par- 
ticularly coquettish women: she passed from caprice to contradiction ;— 
the gallant had undergone the caprice, the courtier must bend beneath the 
contradictory humour. Buckingham bowed, but made no reply. 

“It is true, madam,” said Rochester, bowing in his turn, “that Parry is 
the model of servants ; but, madam, he is no longer young, and we only 
laugh at seeing cheerful objects. Is an old man a gay object ?” . 

“Enough, my lord,” said the princess, coolly ; “the subject of conversa- 
tion is unpleasant to me.” 

Then, as if speaking to herself, “It is really unaccountable,” said she, 
“how little regard my brother’s friends have for his servants.” 

“Ah, madam,” cried Buckingham, “your royal highness pierces my 
heart with a poniard forged by your own hands.” 

“What is the meaning of that speech, which is turned so like a French 
madrigal, duke? I do not understand it.” 

“It means, madam, that you yourself, so good, so charming, so sensible, 
you have laughed sometimes—smiled, I should say—at the idle prattle of 
that good Parry, for whom your royal highness to day entertains such a 
marvellous susceptibility.” } 

“Well, my lord, if I have forgotten myself so far,” said Henrietta, “ you do 
wrong to remind me of it.” And sne made a sign of impatience. “ The 


5 ents 
UPON THE CANAL, 165 


good Parry wants to speak to me, I believe: please to order them to row 
to the shore, my Lord Rochester.” 

Rochester hastened to repeat the princess’s command ; and, a moment 
after, the boat touched the bank. 

“Let us land, gentlemen,” said Henrietta, taking the arm which 
Rochester offered to her, although Buckingham was nearer to her, and 
had presented his. Then Rochester, with an ill-dissembled pride, which 
pierced the heart of the unhappy Buckingham through and through, led 
the princess across the little bridge which the rowers had cast from the 
royal boat to the shore. 

“Which way will your royal highness go?” asked Rochester. 

“You see, my lord, towards that good Parry, who is wandering, as my 
lord of Buckingham says, and seeking me with eyes weakened by the tears 
he has shed over our misfortunes.” 

““Good heavens !” said Rochester, “how sad your royal highness is to- 
day ; we have, in truth, the air of appearing ridiculous fools to you, madam.” 
“Speak for yourself, my lord,” interrupted Buckingham, with vexation ; 

“for my part, I displease her royal highness to such a degree, that I appear 

bsolutely nothing to her.” : 

Neither Rochester nor the princess made any reply ; Henrietta only 
urged her cavalier to a quicker pace. Buckingham remained behind, and 
tock advantage of this isolation to give himself up to such rage, in his 
», “dkerchief, that the cambric was bitten in holes. 

“Parry, my good Parry,” said the princess, with her weak voice, “ come 
hither. I see you are seeking for me, and I am waiting for you.” 

** Ah, madam,” said Rochester, coming charitably to the succour of his 
companion, remaining, as we have said, behind, “if Parry cannot see your 
royal highness, the man who follows him is a sufficient guide, even for a 
blind man; for he has eyes of flame. That man is a double-lamped 
lantern.” 

“Lighting a very handsome martial countenance,” said the princess, 
determined to be as ill-natured as possible. Rochester bowed. ‘“ One of 
those vigorous soldiers’ heads seen nowhere but in France,” added the 
princess, with the perseverance of a woman sure of impunity. 

Rochester and Buckingham looked at each other, as much as to say, 
“What can be the matter with her ?” 

“ See, my lord of Buckingham, what Parry wants,” said Henrietta, “ go !” 

The young man, who considered this order as a favour, resumed his 
courage, and hastened to meet Parry, who, followed by D’Artagnan, 
advanced slowly on account of his age. D’Artagnan walked slowly but 
nobly, as D’Artagnan, doubled by the third of a million, ought to walk, 
that is to say, without conceit or swagger, but without timidity. When 
Buckingham, who had been very eager to comply with the desire of the 
princess, had stopped at a marble bench, as if fatigued with the few steps 
he had gone,—when Buckingham, we say, was at a distance of only a few 
paces from Parry, the latter recognised him. 

“Ah! my lord,” cried he, quite out of breath, “will your grace obey the 
king ?” 

“In what, Monsieur Parry?” said the young man, with a kind of cool- 
ness tempered by a desire of making himself agreeable to the princess. 

“Well, his majesty begs your grace to present this gentleman to her 
royal highness the princess Henrietta.” 

“In the first place, what is the gentleman’s name?” said the duke, 
haughtily, 


166 / THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


D’Artagnan, as we know, was easily affronted ; the tone of the duke of 
Buckingham displeased him. He surveyed the courtier from head to foot, 
and two flashes beamed from beneath his bent brows. But, after a 
struggle, “ Monsieur le chevalier d’Artagnan, my lord,” replied he, quietly, 

“Pardon me, monsieur, that name teaches me your name, but nothing 
more.” 

“That is to say ??——“ That is to say, I do not know you.” 

‘I am more fortunate than you, monsieur,” replied D’Artagnan ; “for I - 
have had the honour of knowing much of your family, and particularly my 
lord duke of Buckingham your illustrious father.” 

“My father?” said Buckingham. “Well, I think I now remember. 
Monsieur le chevalier d’Artagnan, do you say?” 

D’Artagnan bowed. “In person,” said he. 

“Pardon me; but are you one of those Frenchmen who had secret 
relations with my father ?” 

“ Exactly, monsieur the duke, I am one of those Frenchmen.” 

“Then, monsieur, permit me to say that it was strange my father never 
heard of you during his lifetime.” 

“No, monsieur, but he heard of me at the moment of his death: it wa 
I who sent to him, by the hands of the valet de chambre of Anne of Austria, 
notice of the dangers which threatened him ; unfortunately, it came too late.” 

“ Never mind, monsieur,” said Buckingham. “I understand now, that 
having had the intention of rendering a service to the father, you are cgme 
to claim the protection of the son.” 

“Tn the first place, my lord,” replied D’Artagnan, phlegmatically, “I 
claim the protection of no man. His majesty Charles II., to whom I have 
had the honour of rendering some services—I may tell you, my lord, my 
life has been passed in such occupations—King Charles II., then, who 
wishes to honour me with some kindness, has desired I shall be presented 
to her royal highness the princess Henrietta, his sister, to whom I shall, 
perhaps, have the good fortune to be of service hereafter. Now, the king 
knew that you, at this moment, were with her royal highness, and has sent 
me to you, by the intermission of Parry. There is no other mystery. I 
ask absolutely nothing of you; and if you will not present me to her royal 
highness, I shall be compelled to do without you, and present myself.” 

“At least, monsieur,” said Buckingham, determined to have the last 
word, “you will not go back from an explanation provoked by yourself.” 

“T never go back, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan. 

“As you have had relations with my father, you must be acquainted with 
some private details ?” 

“These relations are already far removed from us, my lord—for you were 
not then born—and for some unfortunate diamond studs, which I received 
from his hands and carried back to France, it is really not worth while 
awakening so many remembrances.” 

“Ah! monsieur,” said Buckingham, warmly, going up to D’Artagnan, 
and holding out his hand to him, “it is you, then—-you whom my father 
sought for so earnestly, and who had a right to expect so much from us.” 

“To expect, monsieur ; in truth, that is my for¢e; all my life I have 
expected.” 

At this moment, the princess, who was tired of not seeing the stranger 
approach her, arose and came towards them. 

At least, monsieur,” said Buckingham, “ you shall not wait for the pre- 
sentation you claim of me.” 


Then turning towards the princess, and bowing: “ Madam,” said the 


UPON THE CANAL. a 167 


young man, “the king your brother desires me to have the honour of pre- 
senting to your royal highness, Monsieur le chevalier d’Artagnan.” 

“Tn order that your royal highness may have, at your need, a firm sup- 
port and a sure friend,” added Parry. D’Artagnan bowed. 

_ “You have still something to say, Parry,” replied Henrietta, smiling upon 
D’Artagnan, while addressing the old servant. 

“Ves, madam; the king desires you to preserve religiously in your 
memory the name, and to remember the merit, of M. d’Artagnan, to whom 
his majesty owes, he says, the recovery of his kingdom.” Buckingham, 
the princess, and Rochester looked at each other. 

“That,” said D’Artagnan, “is another little secret, of which, in all pro- 
bability, I shall not boast to his majesty’s son, as I have done to you with 
respect to the diamond studs.” 

“Madam,” said Buckingham, “ monsieur has just, for the second time, 
recalled to my memory an event which excites my curiosity to such a 
degree, that I will venture to ask your permission to take him on one side 
for a moment, to converse in private.” 

“Do, my lord,” said the princess ; “but restore to the sister, as quickly 
‘as possible, this friend so devoted to the brother.” And she took the arm 
Jor Rochester, whilst Buckingham took that of D’Artagnan. 

“Oh! tell me, chevalier,” said Buckingham, “all that affair of the 
diamonds, which nobody knows in England, not even the son of him who 
was the hero of it.” 

“ My lord, one person alone had a right to relate all that affair, as you 
call it, and that was your father; he thought proper to be silent, I_ must 
beg you to allow me to be so likewise.” And D’Artagnan bowed like a 
man upon whom it was evident no entreaties could prevail. 

‘Since it is so, monsieur,” said Buckingham, “ pardon my indiscretion, 
I beg you; and, if at any time, I should go into France——” and he turned 
round to take a last look at the princess, who took but little notice of him, 
totally occupied as she was, or appeared to be with Rochester. Bucking- 
ham sighed. 

“Well?” said D’Artagnan. 

“ T was saying that if, any day, I were to go into France——” 

* You will go, my lord,” said D’Artagnan, “I will answer for that.” 

“ And how so?” 

“ Oh, I have strange powers of prediction ; if I do predict anything, I 
am seldom mistaken. If, then, you do come to France ?” 

“ Well, then, monsieur, you, of whom kings ask that valuable friendship, 
which restores crowns to them, I will venture to beg of you a little of that 
great interest you avowed for my father.” 

“ My lord,” replied D’Artagnan, “ believe me, I shall deem myself highly 
honoured if, in France, you remember having seen me here. And now 
permit——” 

Then, turning towards the princess : “ Madame,” said he, “ your royal 
highness is a daughter of France ; and in that quality I hope to see you 
again in Paris. One of my happy days will be that on which your royal 
highness shall give me any command whatever, which will assure me that 
you have not forgotten the recommendations of your august brother.” 
And he bowed respectfully to the young princess, who gave him her hand 
to kiss with a right royal grace. 

“ Ah! madam,” said Buckingham, in a subdued voice, “ what can a man 
do to obtain a similar favour from your royal highness ?” 

“ Dame! my lord,” replied Henrietta, “ask Monsieur d’Artagnan ; he 
will tell you.” 


163 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


HOW D’ARTAGNAN DREW, AS A FAIRY WOULD HAVE DONE, A COUNTRY- 
SEAT FROM A DEAL BOX. 


THE king’s words regarding the wounded pride of Monk had not inspired 
D’Artagnan with a small portion of apprehension. The lieutenant had - 
had, all his life, the great art of choosing his enemies ; and when he had 
found them implacable and invincible, it was when he had not been able, 
under any pretence, to make them otherwise. But points of view change 
greatly in the course of a life. It is a magic lantern, of which the eye of 
man every year changes the aspects. It results that from the last day of 
a year on which we saw white, to the first day of the year on which we 
shall see black, there is but the interval of a single night. 

Now D’Artagnan, when he left Calais with his ten scamps, would have 
hesitated as little in attacking a Goliath, a Nebuchadnezzar, or a Holo- 
fernes, as he would in crossing swords with a recruit or cavilling with a 
landlady. Then he resembled the sparrow-hawk, which, fasting, attacks 
a ram. Hunger blinds. But D’Artagnan satisfied—D’Artagnan rich— 
D’Artagnan a conqueror—D’Artagnan proud of so difficult a triumph—- 
D’Artagnan had too much to'lose not to reckon, figure by figure, with pro- 
bable bad fortune. His thoughts were employed, therefore, all the way on 
the road froin his presentation, with one thing, and that was, how he should 
manage a man like Monk,a man whom Charles himself, king as he was, 
managed with difficulty ; for, scarcely established, the protected might 
again stand in need of the protector, and would, consequently, not refuse 
him, such being the case, the petty satisfaction of transporting M d’Ar- 
tagnan, or to confine him in one of the Middlesex prisons, or to drown him > 
a little on his passage from Dover to Boulogne. Such sorts of satisfaction 
kings are accustomed to render to viceroys without disagreeable conse- 
quences. It would not beat all necessary for the king to be active in that 
contrepartie of the piece in which Monk should take his revenge. The 
part of the king would be confined to simply pardoning the viceroy of 
Ireland all he should undertake against D’Artagnan. Nothing more was 
necessary to place the conscience of the Duke of Albemarle at rest than a 
te absolvo said with a laugh, or the scrawl of “Charles the King” traced 
at the foot of a parchment ; and with these two words pronounced, and_ 
these two words written, poor D’Artagnan was for ever crushed under the 
ruins of his imagination. And then, a thing sufficiently disquieting for a 
man with such foresight as our musketeer, he found himself alone ; and 
even the friendship of Athos could not restore his confidence. Certes, if 
the affair had only concerned a free distribution of sword-thrusts, the 
musketeer would have reckoned upon his companion ; but in delicate 
matters with a king, when the Jerhaps of an unlucky chance should arise. 
in justification of Monk or of Charles of England, D’Artagnan knew Athos 
well enough to be sure he would give the best possible colouring to the 
loyalty of the survivor, and would content himself with shedding floods of 
tears on the tomb of the dead, supposing the dead to be his friend, and 
afterwards composing his epitaph in the most pompous superlatives. 

Decidedly,” thought the Gascon ; and this thought was the result of 
the reflections which we had just whispered to himself, and which we have 
repeated aloud—“ decidedly, I must be reconciled with M. Monk, and 
acquire a proof of his perfect indifference for the past. If, as God forbid 
it should be so! he is still sulky and reserved in the expression of this- 


HOW DARTAGNAN DREW A COUNTRY-SEAT. 169 


sentiment, I will give my money to Athos to take away with him ; I will 
remain in England just long enough to unmask him, then, as I have a quick 
eye and a light foot, I will seize the first hostile sign ; I will decamp, or con- 
ceal myself at the residence of my lord of Buckingham, who seems a good. 
sort of devil at bottom, and to whom, in return for his hospitality, 1 will 
then relate all that history of the diamonds, which can now compromise 
nobody, but an old queen, who need not be ashamed, after being the wife 
of a poor creature like Mazarin, of having formerly been the mistress of a 
handsome nobleman like Buckingham. J/ordtowx/ that is the thing, and 
this Monk shall not get the better of me. Eh! and besides, I have an 
idea !” 

We know that, in general, D’Artagnan was not wanting in ideas ; and 
during his monologue, D’Artagnan buttoned his vest up to the chin, and 
nothing excited his imagination like this preparation for a combat of any 
kind, called accinction by the Romans. He was quite heated when he 
reached the mansion of the Duke of Albemarle. He was introduced to 
the viceroy with a promptitude which proved that he was considered as one 
of the household. Monk was in his business-closet. 

\ “My lord,’ said D’Artagnan, with that expression of frankness which 
the Gascon knew so well how to assume, “my lord, I am come to ask your 
grace’s advice !” 

Monk, as closely buttoned up morally, as his antagonist was physically, 

, Monk replied: “Ask, my friend ;” and his countenance presented an 

expression not less open than that of D’Artagnan, 

** My lord, in the first place, promise me secrecy and indulgence.” 

**] promise you all you wish. What is the matter? Speak !” 

“Tt is, my lord, that I am not quite pleased with the king.” 

“Indeed! And on what account, my dear lieutenant ?” 

“Because his majesty gives way sometimes to pleasantries very com- 
promising for his servants ; and pleasantry, my lord, is a weapon that 
seriously wounds men of the sword, as we are.” 

Monk did all in his power not to betray his thought, but D’Artagnan 
watched him with too close an attention not to detect an almost imper- 
ceptible redness upon his face. “Well, now, for my part,” said he, with 
the most natural air possible, “I am not an enemy to pleasantry, my dear 
Monsieur d’Artagnan ; my soldiers will tell you even that many times in 
camp I listened, very indifferently, and with a certain pleasure, to the 
satirical songs which the army of Lambert passed into mine, and which, 
certainly, would haye made the ears of a general more susceptible than I 
am, tingle.” 

“Oh! my lord !” said D’Artagnan, “I know you are a complete man; I 
know you have been, for a long time, placed above human miseries ; but 
there are pleasantries, and pleasantries of a certain kind, which, as to my- 
self, have the power of irritating me beyond expression,” 

“May I inquire what kind, my friend ?” 

‘Such as are directed against my friends, or against people I respect, 
my lord.” 

Monk madea slight movement, but which D’Artagnan perceived, “Eh! 
and in what,” asked Monk, “in what can the stroke of a pin which scratches 
another tickle your skin. Answer me that.” 

“My lord, I can explain it to you in one single sentence ; it concerns 

ou.” 

: Monk advanced a single step towards D’Artagnan. “Concerns me,” 

said hes 


170 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“Ves, and this is what I cannot explain ; but that arises, perhaps, from 
my nant of knowledge of his character. How can the king have the heart 
to joke about a man who has rendered him so many and such great 
services? How can one understand that he should amuse himself in 
setting by the ears a lion like you with a gnat like me?” 

a | cannot conceive that in any way,” said Monk. 

“But so itis. The king, who owed me a reward, might have rewarded 
me as a soldier, without “contriving that history of the ransom, which 
affects you, my lord.” 

No,” said Monk, laughing, “it does not affect mein any way, I can 
assure you.” 

“ Not as regards me, I can understand ; you know me, my lord, Iam so 
discreet, that ‘the grave would appear a babbler compared to me ; but—~ 
do you understand, my lord 2” 

“No,” replied Monk, with persistent obstinacy. 

“Tf another knew the secret which I know—— 

“What secret ?” 

“Eh! my lord, why that unfortunate secret of Newcastle.” 

“Oh! the million of M. le comte dela Fére ?” 

“No, my lord, no ; the enterprise made upon your grace’s person.” 

“It was well played, chevalier, that is all, and no more is to be said. 
about it ; you are a soldier, both brave and cunning, which proves that you 
unite the qualities of Fabius and Hannibal. You “employed your means, , 
force and cunning ; there is nothing to be said against that; I ought to > 
have been more guarded.” 

Ah! yes; i know, my lord, and I expected nothing less from your 
partiality ; so that if it were only the abduction in itself, #zordioux / that 
would be nothing ; but there are——” 

“What ?»-——* The circumstances of that abduction.” 

“ What circumstances ?” 

Oh! you know very well what I mean, my lord.” 

“No, curse me if I do.” 

“There is——in truth it is difficult to speak it.” 

“There is?” 

“Well, there is that devil of a box !” 

Monk coloured visibly. “ Well, I have forgotten it.” 

* Deal box,” continued D’Artagnan, ‘ “vith holes for the nose and mouth, 

In truth, my lord, all the rest was well ; but the box, the box ! decidedly 
that was a coarse joke.” Monk fideeted about in his chair. “ And, not- 
withstanding that I have done that, ” resumed D? Artagnan, “‘I,a soldier of 
fortune, it was quite simple, because, by the side of that action, a little 
inconsiderate I admit, which I committed, but which the gravity of the 
case may excuse, I possess circumspection and reserve,” 

“Oh !” said Monk, ~ believe me, I know you well, Monsieur d’Artagnan, 
and I appreciate you.” 
D’Artagnan never took his eyes off Monk ; studying all which passed in 
the mind ‘of the general as he prosecuted his idea, But it does not con- 

cern me, ’ resumed he. 

# Well, then, whom does it concern ?” said Monk, who began to grow a 
little impatient. 

“Tt relates to the king, who will never restrain his tongue.” 

“Well ! and suppose he should say all he knows ?” said Monk, with a 
degree of i hesitation. 


“My lord,” replied D’Artagnan, “ do not dig I implore you, with 


b) 


"HOW DARTAGNAN DREW A COUNTRY-SEAT. 171 


a man who speaks so frankly as I do. You have a right to feel your sus- 
ceptibility excited, however benignant it may be. What the devil! it is’ 
not the place for aman like you, a man who plays with crowns and sceptres 
as a Bohemian plays with his balls ; it is not the place of a serious man, 
I said, to be shut up in a box like a curious object of natural history ; for 
you must understand it would make all your enemies ready to burst with 
laughter, and you are so great, so noble, so generous, that you must have 
many enemies. ‘This secret is enough to set half the human race laugh- 
ing, if you were represented in that box. It is not decent to have the 
second personage in the kingdom laughed at.” 

Monk was quite out of countenance at the idea of seeing himself repre- 
sented in his box. Ridicule, as D’Artagnan had judiciously foreseen, 
acted upon him in a manner which neither the chances of war, the aspira- 
tions of ambition, nor the fear of death had been able to do. 

“ Good !” thought the Gascon, “he is frightened: I am safe.” 

“Oh! as to the king,” said Monk, “fear nothing, my dear Monsieur 
d’Artagnan ; the king will not jest with Monk, I assure you.” 

The flash of his eye was intercepted in its passage by D’Artagnan, 

~Monk lowered his tone immediately : “ The king,” continued he, ‘is of 
too noble a nature, the king’s heart is too high to allow him to wish ill to 
those who do him good.” 

| “Qh! certainly,” cried D’Artagnan. “Iam entirely of your grace’s 

_ opinion with regard to his heart, but not as to his head—it is good, but it 

1s trifling.” 

“The king will not trifle with Monk, be assured,” 

“Then you are quite at ease, my lord ?” 

“On that side, at least ; yes, perfectly.” 

“Ob! I understand you, you are at ease as far as the king is con- 
cerned ?” 

“ T have told you I was.” 

“But you are not so much so on my account ?” 

“T thought I had told you that I had faith in your loyalty and dis- 
cretion.” 

“Without doubt, without doubt, but you must remember one thing——” 

“* What is that ?” 

“That I was notalone, that I had companions ; and what companions |” 

“Oh! yes, I know them.” 

“ And, unfortunately, my lord, they know you, too !” 

Well ?” 

“Well ; they are yonder, at Boulogne, waiting for me.” 

“ And you fear——” 

“Yes, I fear that in my absence——Parbleu / if I were near them, I 
could answer for their silence.” 

“Was I not right in saying that the danger, if there was any danger, 
would not come from his majesty, however disposed he may be to 
joke, but from your companions, as you say——To be laughed at bya 
king may be tolerable, but by the horse-boys and scamps of the army? 
Damn it !” 

“Yes, I comprehend, that would be insupportable; that is why, my 
lord, I came to say,—do you not think it would be better that I should set 
out for France as soon as possible ?” 

“ Certainly, if you think your presence i 

“Would impose silence upon these scoundrels? Oh! I am sure of 
that, my lord,” . 


1gge THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


Your presence will not prevent the report from spreading, it the tale 
has already transpired.” 

‘Oh! it has not transpired, my lord, I will be bound, At all events, be 
assured I am determined upon one thing.” 

“What is that ?” 

“To blow out the brains of the first who shall have propagated that 
report, and of the first who has heard it. After which I will return to 
England to seek an asylum, and perhaps employment with your grace.” 

“Oh, come back ! come back !” 

“ Unfortunately, my lord, I am acquainted with nobody here but your 
grace, and if I should no longer find you, or if you should have forgotten 
me in your greatness ?” 

-“TListen to me, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” replied Monk; “you are a 
superior gentleman, full of intelligence and courage ; you merit all the good 
fortune this world can bring you; come with me into Scotland, and, I 
swear to you, I will create you a destiny which all may envy.” 

“Oh! my lord, that is impossible at present. At present I have a 
sacred duty to perform; I have to watch over your glory, I have to pre- 
vent a low joker from tarnishing in the eyes of our contemporaries— who 
knows ? in the eyes of posterity—the splendour of your name.” 

“ Of posterity, Monsieur d’Artagnan ?” 

“Doubtless. It is necessary, as regards posterity, that all the details of 
that history should remain a mystery; for, admit that this unfortunate 
history of the deal box should spread, and it should be asserted that you 
had not re-established the king loyally, and of your free will, but in conse- 
quence of a compromise entered into at Scheveningen between you two, it 
would be in vain for me to declare how the thing came about, for me, who 
knew I should not be believed, it would be said that I had received my 
part of the cake, and was eating it.” | 

Monk knitted his brow.——“ Glory, honour, probity !” said he, “ you are 
but words.” 

.“ Mist !” replied D’Artagnan ; “ nothing but mist, through which nobody 
can see clearly.” 

“Well, then, go to France, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Monk ; 
“so, and to render England more attractive and agreeable to you, accept 
a remembrance of me.” 

“What now?” thought D’Artagnan. 

“T have on the banks of the Clyde,” continued Monk, “a little house be- 
neath trees, a cottage as it is called here. To this house are attached a 
hundred acres of land. Accept it as a memorial.” 

“Oh, my lord !——” 

“ Damz! you will be there in your own home, and that will be the place 
of refuge you were talking of just now.” 

“For me to be obliged to your lordship to such an extent ! Really, your 
grace, I am ashamed.” 

“Not at all, not at all, monsieur,” replied Monk, with an arch smile; 
‘it is I who shall be obliged to you. And,” pressing the hand of the mus- 
keteer, “I will go and draw up the deed of gift,” and he left the room. 

D’Artagnan looked at him as he went out with something of a pensive 
and even an agitated air. 

_ “ After all,” said he, “he is a brave man. It is only a sad reflection that 
it is from fear of me, and not affection, that he acts thus. Well, I will 
endeavour that affection may follow.” Then, after an instant’s deeper re- 
flection,—“ Bah said he, “to what purpose? He is an Englishman,” 


4 
Ve 


HOW DARTAGNAN DREW A COUNTRY-SEAT. 173 


And he in his turn went out, a little confused with the combat. “ So,” 
said he, “I am aland-owner! But how the devil am I to share the cot- 
tage with Planchet? Unless I give him the land and I take the chateau, 
or that he takes the house and 1—nonsense! M. Monk will never allow 
ne to share a house he has inhabited, with a grocer. He is too proud for 
that. Besides, why should I say anything about it to him? It was not 
‘with the money of the company I have acquired that property, it was 
with my mother-wit alone ; it is all mine, then. So, now I will go and 
find Athos.” And he directed his steps towards the dwelling of the Comte 
de la Fére. 


ee 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


HOW D’ARTAGNAN REGULATED THE “PASSIVE” OF THE COMPANY 
BEFORE HE ESTABLISHED ITS ‘ ACTIVE.” 


“DECIDEDLY,” said D’Artagnan to himself, “I am in good vein. That star 
_ which shines once in the life of every man, which shone for Job and Irus, 
Cthe most unfortunate of the Jews and the poorest of the Greeks, is come at 

last to shine on me. I will commit no folly, I will take advantage of it ; it 

comes quite late enough to find me reasonable.” 

He supped that evening, in very good humour, with his friend Athos ; 
he said nothing to him about the expected donation, but he could not for- 
bear questioning his friend, while he was eating, about country produce, 
sowing, and planting. Athos replied complacently, as he always did. His 
idea was that D’Artagnan wished to become a proprietor ; only he could 
not help regretting, more than once, the absence of the lively humour and 
amusing sallies of the cheerful companion of former days. In fact, D’Ar- 
tagnan was so absorbed, that, with his knife, he took advantage of the 
grease left at the bottom of his plate, to trace ciphers and make additions 
of surprising rotundity. ‘he order, or rather licence, for their embarka- 
tion, arrived at Athos’ lodgings that evening. At the same time this paper 
was remitted to the comte, another messenger brought to D’Artagnan a 
little bundle of parchment, adorned with all the seals employed in setting- 
off property deeds in England. Athos surprised him turning over the 
leaves of these different acts which established the transmission of pro- 
perty. The prudent Monk—others would say the generous Monk—had 
commuted the donation into a sale, and acknowledged the receipt of a sum 
of fifteen thousand livres as the price of the property ceded. The messen- 
ger was gone. D’Artagnan still continued reading. Athos watched him 
with a smile. D’Artagnan, surprising one of those smiles over his shoulder, 
put the bundle into its wrapper. 

“TI beg your pardon,” said Athos, 

“Oh ! not at all, my friend,” replied the lieutenant ; “I will tell youn——” 

“No, don’t tell me anything, 1 beg you; orders are things so sacred, 
that to one’s brother, one’s father, the person charged with such orders 
should never open his mouth. Thus I, who speak to you, and tove you 
more tenderly than brother, father, or all the world ” 

“Except your Raoul ?” 

“T shall love Raoul still better when he shall be a man, and I shall have 
seen him develop himself in all the phases of his character and his actions 
—as I have seen you, my friend.” 

“You said, then, that you had an order likewise, and that you would net 
communicate it to me,” 


“ae 


™ 


, 


174 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“Ves, my dear D’Artagnan.” | | a7 

The Gascon sighed. “There was a time,” said he, “in which you would 
have placed that order open upon the table, saying, ‘ D’Artagnan, read this 
scrawl to Porthos, Aramis, and me.’ ” 

“That is true. Oh! that was the time of youth, confidence, the generous 
season when the blood commands, when it is warmed by feeling !” 

“Well! Athos, will you allow me to tell you ?” 

“ Speak, my friend !” 

“That delightful time, that generous season, that domination of the 
heated blood, were all very fine things, no doubt: but I do not regret 
them at all. It is absolutely like the period of studies. I have constantly 
met with fools who would boast of the days of pensums, ferules, and crusts 
of dry bread. It is singular, but I never loved all that : for my part, how- 
ever active and sober I might be (you knew if I was so, Athos), so simple 
as I might appear in my clothes, I would not the less have preferred the 
braveries and embroideries of Porthos to my little porous cassock, which 
admitted the wind in winter and the sun in summer. I should always, 
my friend, mistrust him who would pretend to prefer evil to good. Now, 
in times past, all was evil with me, the times past in which every mont 
found a fresh hole in my cassock and in my skin, a gold crown less in m 
poor purse ; of that execrable time of small beer and see-saw, I regret 
absolutely nothing, nothing, nothing but our friendship ; for within me I 
have a heart, and it is a miracle that heart has not been dried up by the 
wind of poverty which passed through the holes of my cloak, or pierced 
by the swords of all shapes which passed through the holes in my poor 
flesh.” 

“Do not regret our friendship,” said Athos, “ that will only die with our- 
selves. Friendship is composed, above all things, of remembrances and 
habits, and if you have just now made a little satire upon mine, because I 
hesitate to tell you the nature of my mission into France——” 

“Who ! I?—Oh! heavens! if you knew, my dear friend, how indiffer- 
ent all the missions of the world will henceforth become to me!” And he 
laid his hand upon the parchment in his vast pocket. 

Athos rose from the table and called the host in order to pay the 
reckoning. 

_ “Since I have known you, my friend,” said D’Artagnan, “I have never 
discharged the reckoning. Porthos often did, Aramis sometimes, and you, 
you almost always drew out your purse with the dessert. I am now rich, 
and should like to try if it is heroic to pay.” 

“Do so,” said Athos, returning his purse to his pocket. 

The two friends then directed their steps towards the park, not, however, 
without D’Artagnan’s frequently turning round to watch the transport of 
his dear crowns. Night had just spread her thick veil over the yellow 
waters of the Thames ; they heard those noises of casks and pulleys, the 
precursors of preparing to sail which had so many times made the hearts 
of the musketeers beat when the dangers of the sea were the least of those 
they were going to face. This time they were to embark on board a large 
vessel which awaited them at Gravesend, and Charles II., always delicate 
in small matters, had sent one of his yachts, with twelve men of his Scotch 
guard, to do honour to the ambassador he was deputing to France. At 
midnight the yacht had deposited its passengers on board the vessel, and 
at eight o’clock in the morning, the vessel landed the ambassador and his 
friend before the je¢ée at Boulogne. Whilst the comte, with Grimaud, was 
busy in procuring horses to go straight to Paris, D’Artagnan hastened to 


¢ 


HOW DARTAGNAN REGULATED THE COMPANY. 178 


the hostelry where, according to his orders, his little army was to wait for 
him. These gentlemen were at breakfast upon oysters, fish, and aroma- 
tised brandy, when D’Artagnan appeared. They were all very gay, but 
not one of them had yet exceeded the bounds of reason. A hurrah of 
joy welcomed the general. “ Here I am,” said D’Artagnan, “the campaign 
is ended. I am come to bring each his supplement of pay, as agreed upon.” 
Their eyes sparkled. “I will lay a wager there are not, already, a 
hundred livres remaining in the purse of the richest among you.” 

“That is true !” cried they in chorus. 

“Gentlemen,” said D’Artagnan, “then, this is the last order. The treaty 
of commerce has been concluded, thanks to our cowf-de-main which made 
us masters of the most skilful financier of England, tor now I amat liherty 
‘to confess to you that the man we had to carry off was the treasurer of 
_General Monk.” 

This word treasurer produced a certain effect in his army. D’Artagnan 
observed that the eyes of Menneville alone did not evince perfect faith. 

“This treasurer,” continued D’Artagnan, “ I have conveyed to a neutral 
territory, Holland ; I have forced him to sign the treaty ; I have even re- 
pr proce him to Newcastle; and as he was obliged to be satisfied with 


pur proceedings towards him—the deal coffer being always carried with- 
ut jolting, and being lined softly, I asked for a gratification for you. Here 

_/\ is.” He threw a respectable-looking purse upon the cloth ; and all, in- 
Xluntarily, stretched out their hands. “One moment, my lambs,” said 
D’Artagnan ; “if there are benefits, there are also charges.” 

“Oh! oh!” murmured they. 

“We are about to find ourselves, my friends, in a position that would not 
be tenable for people without brains. I speak plainly: we are between 
the gallows and the Bastille.,-——“ Oh! oh !” said the chorus. 

“That is easy to be understood. It was necessary to explain to Gene- 
ral Monk the disappearance of his treasurer. I waited for that purpose, 
till the very unhoped-for moment of the restoration of King Charles IL, 
who is one of my friends.” 

The army exchanged a glance of satisfaction in reply to the sufficiently 
roud look of D’Artagnan. “ The king being restored, I restored Monk 
is man of business, a little plucked, it is true, but, in short, I restored 

him. Now, General Monk, when he pardoned me, for he has pardoned 
me, could not help repeating these words to me, which I charge every 
one of you to engrave deeply there, between the eyes, under the vault 
of the cranium :—‘ Monsieur, the joke has been a good one, but I don't 
naturally like jokes ; if ever a word of what you have done’ (you under- 
stand me, M. Menneville) ‘escapes from your lips, or the lips of your com- 
panions, I have, in my government of Scotland, and Ireland, seven hun- 
dred and forty-one wooden gibbets, of strong oak, clamped with iron, and 
fresh greased every week. I will make a present of one of these gibbets 
to each of you, and observe well, M. d’Artagnan,’ added he, (remark it 
also, M. Menneville), ‘I shall still have seven hundred and thirty left for 
my private pleasures. And still further AS 

Ah! ah !” said the auxiliaries, “is there more still ?” 

“One trouble more. ‘ Monsieur D’Artagnan, I expedite to the king of 
France the treaty in question, with a request that he will cast into the 
Bastille provisionally, and then send to me, all who have taken part in 
this expedition ; and that is a prayer with which the king will certainly 
comply.’ ” 

A cry of terror broke from all corners of the table. 


? 


176 THE VICOMTE DE BRACELONNE. 


| 
‘There! there! there!” said D’Artagnan, “this brave M. Monk h 
forgotten one thing, and that is that he does not know the name of a 
one of you ; I alone know you, and it is not I, you may well believe, w 
will betray you. Why should I? As for you, I cannot suppose you wi 
be silly enough to denounce yourselves, for then the king, to spare himself | 
the expenses “of feeding and lodging you, will send you off to Scotland, | 
where the seven hundred and forty- one gibbets are to be found. ‘That is. 
all, messieurs ; I have not another word to add to what I have had the | 
honour to tell you. I am sure you have understood me perfectly well, | 


have you not, M. Menneville ?” 
is Perfectly,” replied the latter. 
‘“‘ Now the crowns!” said D’Artagnan. ‘Shut the doors,” he cried, one 
opened the bag upon the table, from which rolled several fine gold crowns, 
Every one made a movement tewards the floor. | 
* Gently !” cried D’Artagnan, “I insist upon it nobody stoops, and then : 
I shall not be out in my reckoning, ” He found it all-right ; gave fifty of 
those splendid crowns to each man, and received as many benedictions as - 
he bestowed pieces. ‘“ Now,” said he, “if it were possible for you to “f 
( 


form a little, if you could become good and honest citizens , 

‘That is rather difficult,” said one of the troop. : 

“What then, captain ?” said another. ae 

“ Because I might be able to find you again, and, who knows? refreshe! 
from time to time by some windfall.” He made a sign to Mennevill} 
who listened to all he said with a composed air. “ Menneville,” said hes 

‘come with me. Adieu, my brave fellows! I need not recommend you 
to be discreet.” 

Menneville followed him, whilst the salutations of the auxiliaries were 
mingled with the sweet sound of the money clinking in their pockets. 

3 Menneville,” said D’Artagnan, when they were once in the street, 

“you were not my dupe ; beware of being so. You did not appear to 
me to have any fear of the gibbets of Monk, or the Bastille of his majesty 
King Louis XIV., but you will do me the favour of being afraid of me. 
Then listen 3 at the smallest word that shall escape you, I will kill you as 
I woulda fowl. I have absolution from our holy father the pope in my 
pocket.” i 

“IT assure you I know absolutely nothing, my dear M. d’Artagnan, an’ 
that your words have all been to me so many articles of faith. 

““T was quite sure you were an intelligent fellow,” said the musketeer ; 
“T have tried you for alength of time. These fifty gold crowns which 
I give you move than the rest, will prove the estimation I hold you in. 
Take them.” 

“Thanks, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Menneville. 

“With that sum you can really become an honest man,” replied D’Ar- 
tagnan, in the most serious tone possible. ‘It would be disgraceful for a 
mind like yours, and a name you no longer dare to bear, to ‘sink for ever 
under the rust of an evil life. Becomea : gallant man, Menneville, and live 
for a year upon those hundred gold crowns: it is a good provision ; 
twice that of a high officer. In a year come to me, and, Mordioux / } 
will make something of you.” 

Menneville swore, as his comrades had sworn, that he would be as mute 
as the tomb. And yet some one must have spoken; and as, toa certainty, 
it was not one of the nine companions, as, equally certainly, it was not 
Menneville, it must have been D’Artagnan, who, i in his quality of a Gascony 
had his tongue very near to his lips. For, i in short, if it was not he, who 


HOW DARTAGNAN REGULATED THE COMPANY. 177 


could it be? And how can it be explained that the secret of the deal coffer 
pierced with holes should come to our knowledge, and in so complete a 
fashion that we have, as has been seen, related the history of it in all its 
details the most intimate ; details which, besides, throw a light as new as 
unexpected upon all that portion of the history of England which has 
been left, up to the present day, completely in the shade by the historians 
of our neighbours ? 


CHAPTER XXXVIILI. 


IN WHICH IT IS SEEN THAT THE FRENCH GROCER HAD ALREADY BEEN 
ESTABLISHED IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 


HIs accounts once settled, and his recommendations made, D’Artagnan 
thought of nothing but regairing Paris as soon as possible. Athos, on his 
part, was anxious to reach home and to repose a little. However entire 
may remain the character and the man after the fatigues of a voyage, the 
traveller perceives with pleasure, at the close of the day,—even though the 
«day has been a fine one,—that night is approaching, and will bring a little 

leep with it. So, from Boulogne to Paris, jogging on side by side, the 
two friends, in some degree absorbed each in his individual thoughts, con- 
versed of nothing sufficiently interesting for us to intrude upon our readers 
with. Each of them, given up to his personal reflections, and construct- 
ing his future after his own fashion, was above all anxious to abridge the 
distance by speed. Athos and D’Artagnan arrived at the barriers of Paris 
on the evening of the fourth day after leaving Boulogne. 

“Where are you going, my friend ?” asked Athos. “I shall direct my 
course straight to my hotel.” 

“ And I straight to my partner’s.” 

“To Planchet’s ?,—“ Good Lord, yes ; at the ‘ Pilon d’Or.’” 

“Well, but shall we not meet again ?” 

“Tf you remain in Paris, yes ; for I shall stay here.” 

“No; after having embraced Raoul, with whom I have appointed a 
meeting at my hotel, I shall set out immediately for La Feére.” 

“Well, adieu, then, dear and true friend.” 

“ Au revoir /1 should rather say, for why can you not come and live 
with me at Blois? Youare free; you are rich. 1 will purchase for you, 
if you like, a handsome property in the environs of Cheveray or of Bra- 
cieux. On the one side you will have the finest woods in the world, which 
join those of Chambord; on the other, admirable marshes. You, who 
love sporting, and who, whether you admit it or not, are a poet, my dear 
friend, you will find pheasants, rail, and teal, without’ reckoning sunsets 
and excursions on the water, to make you fancy yourself Nimrod and 
Apollo themselves. Awaiting the acquisition, you can live,at La Fére, and 
we will go together to fly our hawks among the vines, as Louis XIII. used 
todo. ‘That is a quiet amusement for old fellows like us.” 

D’Artagnan took the hands of Athos in his own. “ Dear comte,” said 
he, “I will neither say ‘Yes’ nor ‘No.’ Let me pass in Paris the time 
necessary for the regulation of my affairs, and accustom myself, by degrees, 
to the heavy and glittering idea which is beating in my brains and dazzles 
them. Iam rich, do you see, and from this moment till the time I have 
acquired the habit of being rich, I know myself, and I shall be an unsup- 
portable animal. Now, I am not enough of a fool to wish to appear to 

: 12 


£78 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


have lost my wits before a friend like you, Athos. The habit is handsome, 
the habit is richly gilded, but it is new, and does not seem to fit me.” 

Athos smiled. “So be it,” said he. “ But @ propos of this habit, dear 
D’Artagnan, will you allow me to offer you a little advice 

“Ves, willingly.” 

“Vou will not be angry ??——“ Proceed.” : 

“ When wealth falls to any one late or all at once, that any one, in order 
not to change, will most likely become a miser, that is to say, will not spend 
much more money than he had done before ; or else become a prodigal, 
and contract so many debts as to become poor again.” | 

“ Oh! but what you say looks very much like a sophism, my dear philo- 
sophic friend.” 

“T do not think so. Will you become a miser ?” 

“No, pardieu ! | was one already, having nothing. Let us change.” 

“Then be prodigal.” 

“Stillless, zordioux! Debts terrify me. Creditors appear to me, by | 
anticipation, those devils who turn the damned upon the gridirons, and as | 
patience is not my dominant virtue, I am always tempted to thrash those 
devils.” 

“ You are the wisest man I know, and stand in no need of counsel from\, j 
any one. Great fools must they be who think they have anything to teach’ ; 
you. But are we not at the Rue Saint Honoré ?”—“ Yes, dear Athos,” ~ 

“ Took yonder, on the left, that small, long white house is the hotel at 
which I lodge. You may observe that it has but two stages ; I occupy the 
first ; the other is let to an officer, whose duties oblige him to be absent 
eight or nine months in the year,—so I am in that house as at my own 
home, without the expense.” 

“Oh! how well you manage, Athos! What orderand what liberality ! 
They are what I wish to unite! But, of what use trying! that comes from 
birth, and cannot be acquired.” 

“You are a flatterer! Well! adieu, dear friend. Apropos, remember 
me to master Planchet, he was always a lad of spirit.” 

*“* And of heart too, Athos. Adieu.” 

And they separated. During all this conversation, D’Artagnan had not 
for a moment lost sight of a certain pack-horse, in whose panniers, under 
some hay, were spread the sacoches (messenger’s bags) with the portman- 
teau. Nine o’clock was striking at Saint-Muine ; Planchet’s lads were shut- 
ting up his shop. D’Artagnan stopped the postilion who rode the pack- 
horse, at the corner of the Rue des Lombards, under a pent-house, and 
calling one of Planchet’s boys, he desired him not only to take care of 
the two horses, but to watch the postilion ; after which he entered the shop 
of the grocer, who had just finished supper, and who, in his little private 
room was, with a degree of anxiety, consulting the calendar, from which, 
every evening, he scratched out the day that was past. At the moment 
when Planchet, according to his daily custom, with the back of his pen, 
erased another day, D’Artagnan kicked with his feet at the door, and the 
blow made his steel spur jingle. ‘Oh! good Lord !” cried Planchet. The 
worthy grocer could say no more; he perceived his partner. D’Artagnan 
entered with a bent back and a dull eye : the Gascon had an idea with re- 
gard to Planchet. 

“Good God !” thought the grocer, looking earnestly at the traveller, “he 
looks very sad!” The musketeer sat down. 
~ “My dear Monsieur d’Artagnan !” said Planchet, with a horrible palpi- 
tation of the heart, “ Here you are! and your health ?” peeks 


THE FRENCH GROCER. 179 


Tolerably good, Planchet, tolerably good !” said D’Artagnan, with a 
profound sigh. 

“You have not been wounded, I hope ?”———“ Pugh !” 

“Ah! I see,” continued Planchet, more and more alarmed, “ the expe- 
dition has been a trying one ?” 

“Yes,” said D’Artagnan. A shudder ran through the whole frame of 
Planchet. “I should like to have something to drink,” said- the muske- 
teer, raising his head piteously. 

Planchet ran to the cupboard, and poured D’Artagnan out some wine in 
a large glass. D’Artagnan examined the bottle. 

“What wine is that ?” asked he. 

“ Alas! that which you prefer, monsieur,” said Planchet ; “that good 
old Anjou wine, which was one day nearly costing us all so dear.” 

“Ah!” replied D’Artagnan, with a melancholy smile, “ Ah! my poor 
Planchet ! ought I still to drink good wine ?” 

‘“‘Come ! my dear master,” said Planchet, making a superhuman effort, 
whilst all his contracted muscles, his paleness, and his trembling, betrayed 
e most acute anguish. “Come! | have been a soldier, and consequently 
ve some courage ; do not make me linger, dear Monsieur d’Artagnan ; 
ur money is lost, is it not ?” 

Before he answered, D’Artagnan took time, which appeared an age to 
he poor grocer. Nevertheless, he did nothing but turn about upon his 
chair. 

“And if that were the case,” said he, slowly, moving his head up and 
down, “if that were the case, what would you say, my dear friend ?” 

Planchet, from being pale turned yellow. It might have been thought 
he was going to swallow his tongue, so full became his throat, so red were 
his eyes! 

“Twenty thousand livres!” murmured he. “Twenty thousand livres, 
though——” 

D’Artagnan, with his neck elongated, his legs stretched out, and his 
hands hanging listlessly, looked like a statue of discouragement. Planchet 
tore up a sigh from the deepest cavities of his breast. = 

“ Well,” said he, “I see how it is. Let us be men! It is all over, is it 
not? The principal thing is, monsieur, that you have saved your life.” 

“ Doubtless ! doubtless !—life is something—but I am ruined !” 

“ Cordieu / monsieur !” said Planchet, “if it is so, we must not despair 
for that ; you shall become a grocer with me; I will make you my partner, 
we will share the profits, and if there should be no more profits, well, why 
then we will share the almonds, raisins, and prunes, and we will nibble 
together the last quarter of Dutch cheese.” 

D’Artagnan could hold out no longer. “A/ordioux !” cried he, with great 
emotion, “thou art a brave fellow, by my honour, Planchet. You have 
not been playing comedy, have you? You have not seen the pack-horse 
with the sacoches under the shed yonder ?” 

“What horse? What sacoches ?” said Planchet, whose trembling heart 
began to suggest that D’Artagnan was mad. ; 

“Why! the English bags, mordioux !” said D’Artagnan, all radiant, 
quite transfigured. 4 

“Ah! good God!” articulated Planchet, drawing back before the dazzling 
fire of his looks. 

“Imbecile !” cried D’Artagnan, “you think me mad! mordiouwx / on the 
contrary, never was my head more clear, or my heart more joyous. To 
the sacoches, Planchet, to the sacoches |” . 


13--~2 


a: 


1890 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“But to what sacoches, mon Dteu I” 

D’Artagnan pushed Planchet towards the window, “ Under the pent 
house, yonder, don’t you see a horse P——_6 Ves, 

“Don’t you see how his back is laden ?»——“ Yes, yes !” 

“Don’t you see your lad chatting with the postilion ?” 

OV es “yes, ves 1 

“Well! you know the name of that lad, because he is your own. 
Call him.” | 

‘Abdon ! Abdon !” vociferated Planchet from the window. | 

“Bring the horse !” shouted D’Artagnan. | 

“ Bring the horse !” screamed Planchet. 

*““ Now give ten livres to the postilion,” said D’Artagnan, in the tone he 
would have employed in commanding a manceuvre ; “two lads to bring 
up the two first sacoches, two to bring up the two last—and move, #0r- 
dioux ! be alive !” | 

Planchet precipitated himself down the stairs, as if the devil had bee 
at his heels. The moment after, the lads ascended the staircase, bendin 
beneath their burden. D’Artagnan sent them off to their garrets, car, 
fully closed the door, and addressing Planchet, who, in his turn, looke 
little wild, — 

“ Now, we are by ourselves,” said he ; and he spread upon the floor 
large cover, and emptied the first sacoche into it. Planchet did the samp 
with the second; then D’Artagnan, all in a tremble, let out the precious 
bowels of the third with a knife. When Planchet heard the provoking 
sound of the silver and gold—when he saw bubbling out of the bags the 
shining crowns, which glittered like fish from the sweep-net—when he felt 
himself plunging his hands up to the elbow in that still rising tide of yellow 
and silver pieces, a giddiness seized him, and he sank, like a man who is 
thunderstruck, heavily down upon the enormous heap, which his weight 
caused to roll away in all directions. Planchet, suffocated with joy, had 
lost his senses.’ D’Artagnan threw a glass of white wine in his face, 
which, incontinently, recalled him to life. - aed aed 

“Ah! good heavens ! good heavens! good heavens !” said Planchet, 
wiping his moustache and beard. 

At that time, as they do now, grocers wore the cavalier moustache and 
the lansquenet beard, only the dazus @argent, already become rare in those 
days, have become almost unknown now. 

“ Mordioux !” said D’Artagnan, “ there are a hundred thousand livres 
‘for you, partner. Draw your share, if you please! and I will draw mine.” 

“Oh! the lovely sum! Monsieur d’Artagnan, the lovely sum !” 

“T confess that, half an hour ago, I regretted that I had to give you sa 
much ; but I now no longer regret it ; thou arta brave grocer, Planchet. 
There, let us close our accounts, for, as they say, short reckonings make 
long friends.” \ 

“Oh! rather, in the first place, tell me the whole history,” said Planchet, | 
“that must be better than the money.” 

“Ma fot /? said D’Artagnan, stroking his moustache, “I can’t say nos 
and if ever the historian turns to me for information, he will be able to say 
he has not dipped his bucket into a dry spring. Listen then, Planchet, I 
will tell you all about it.” 

“And I will build piles of crowns,” said Planchet. “ Commence, my- 
dear master.” 

Well, this is it,” said ‘D’Artagnan, drawing breath. 

“And that is it,” said Planchet, picking up his first handful of crowns. 


a eee, Fee Wel aii 


! = 


; _ MAZARIN’S GAMING PARTY. 182 


GHAPTER: XXXEX 
MAZARIN’S GAMING PARTY. 


In a large chamber of the Palais-Royal, covered with a dark coloured 
velvet, which threw into strong relief the gilded frames of a great number 
of magnificent pictures, on the evening of the arrival of the two French- 
men, the whole court was assembled before the alcove of M. le cardinal 
de Mazarin, who gave a party, for the purposes of play, to the king and 
queen. A small screen separated three prepared tables. At one of these 
tables the king and the two queens were seated. Louis XIV., placed oppo- 
site to the young queen, his wife, smiled upon her with an expression of 
real happiness. Anne of Austria held the cards against the cardinal, and 
her daughter-in-law assisted her in her game, when she was not engaged 
in smiling at her husband. As for the cardinal, who was reclining on his 
bed, his cards were held by the Comtesse de Soissons, and he watched 
yem with an incessant look of interest and cupidity. 
(The cardinal had been painted by Bernouin; but the rouge, which 
wed only on his cheeks, threw into stronger contrast the sickly pallor 
the rest of his countenance and the shining yellow of his brow. His eyes 
yne acquired a more lively expression from this auxiliary, and upon 
ose sick man’s eyes were, from time to time, turned the uneasy looks of 
e king, the queen, and the courtiers. The fact is, that the two eyes of 
the signor Mazarin were the stars more or less brilliant in which the France, 
of the seventeenth century read its destiny every evening and every morr.- 
ing. Monseigneur neither won nor lost ; he was, therefore, neither gay 
nor sad. It was a stagnation in which, full of pity for him, Anne of Auscria 
would not have willingly left him ; but in order to attract the attention of 
the sick man by some brilliant stroke, she must have either won cr lost. 
To win would have been dangerous, because Mazarin would have changed 
his indifference for an ugly grimace; to lose would likewise bave been 
dangerous, because she must have cheated, and the infanta, who watched 
her game, would, doubtless, have exclaimed against her partiality for 
Mazarin. _ Profiting by this calm, the courtiers were chatting. When not 
in a bad humour, M. de Mazarin was a very adébonnatre prince, and he, 
who prevented nobody from singing, provided they paid, was not tyrant 
enough to prevent people from talking, provided they made up their minds 
to lose, They were chatting then. At the first table, the king’s younger 
brother, Philip, duc d’Anjou, was admiring his handsome face in the glass 
of a box. His favourite, the Chevalier de Lorraine, leaning over the 
fauteutl of the prince, was listening, with secret envy, to the Comte de 
Guiche, another of Philip’s favourites, who was relating in choice terms 
the various vicissitudes of fortune of the royal adventurer Charles II. He 
told, as so many fabulous events, all the history of his peregrinations in 
Scotland, and his terrors when the enemy’s party was so closely on his 
track; of nights passed in trees, and days passed in hunger and combats. 
By degrees, the fate of the unfortunate king interested his auditors so 
reatly, that the play languished even at the royal table, and the young 
‘ing, with a pensive look and downcast eye, followed, without appearing 
0 give any attention to it, the smallest details of this Odyssey, very pic- 
turesquely related by the Comte de Guiche. 
The Comtesse de Soissonsinterrupted the narrator, “ Confess, comte, you 
are inventing.” 


“ Madame, I am _ repeating like a parrot all the histories related to me 


182 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


by different Englishmen. I am compelled to my shame to say, 1 am 
as textual as a copy.” 

“Charles II. would have died before he could have endured all that.” 

Louis XIV. raised his intelligent and proud head, “* Madame,’ said he 
in a grave tone, still partaking something of the timid child, “ monsieur le 
cardinal will tell you that in my minority, the affairs of France have been 
in jeopardy,—and that if I had been older, and obliged to take sword in 
hand, it would sometimes have been for the evening meal.” 

“Thanks to God,” said the cardinal, who spoke for the first time, “ your 
majesty exaggerates, and your supper has always been ready with that of 
your servants.” 

The king coloured. 

“Oh !” cried Philip, inconsiderately, from his place, and without ceasing 
to admire himself,—“ I recollect once, at Milan, the supper was laid for 
nobody, and that the king ate two thirds of aslice of bread, and abandoned 
to me the other third.” 

The whole assembly, seeing Mazarin smile, began to laugh. Courtier, 
flatter kings with the remembrance of past distresses, as with the hopes 
future good fortune. # 

“Tt is not to be denied that the crown of France has always remait 
firm upon the heads of its kings,” Anne of Austria hastened to say, “a 
that it has fallen off from that of the king of England; and when, | 
chance, that crown oscillated a little,—for there are throne-quakes as w 
as earthquakes,—every time, I say, that rebellion threatened it,a go 
victory restored tranquillity.” 

With a few gems added to the crown,” said Mazarin. 

The Comte de Guiche was silent ; the king composed his countenance, 
and Mazarin exchanged looks with Anne of Austria, as ifto thank her for 
her intervention. 

“ It is of no consequence,” said Philip, smoothing his hair ; “my cousin 
Charles is not handsome, but he is very brave, and has fought like a 
Reister ; and if he continues to fight thus, no doubt he will finish by gain- 
ing a battle, like Rocroy e 

“ He has no soldiers,” interrupted the Chevalier de Lorraine. | 

“The king of Holland, his ally, will give him some. I would willingly 
have given him some if I had been king of France.” 

Louis XIV. blushed excessively. Mazarin affected to be more attentive 
to his game than ever. 

“ By this time,” resumed the Comte de Guiche, “the fortune of this un- 
happy prince is decided. Ifhe has been deceived by Monk he is ruined. 


Imprisonment, perhaps death, will finish what exile, battles, and privations 
have commenced.” 


Mazarin’s brow became clouded. 

“Is it certain,” said Louis XIV., “that his majesty Charles 1]. has quit- 
ted the Hague ?” 

“ Quite certain, your majesty,” replied the young man; “ my father has 
received a letter containing ali the details ; it is even known that the king 


has landed at Dover ; some fishermen saw him entering the port ; the rest 
is still a mystery.” 


“TI should like to know the rest,” said Philip, impetuously. “ You know, 
—you, my brother.” a. 
Louis XIV. coloured again. That was the third time within an hour. 
Ask monsieur le cardinal,” replied he, ina tone which made Mazarin, 
Anne of Austria, and everybody else, open their eyes. 


4 
4 


ie Bone ee 


Ls 
od 


) 


= 


. 


MAZARIN’S GAMING PARTY. 183 


_ Which means, my son,” said Anne of Austria, laughing, “ that the king 
does not like affairs of state to be talked of out of the council.” 

Philip received the reprimand with a good grace, and bowed, first 
smiling at his brother, and then at hismother. But Mazarin saw from the 
corner of his eye that a group was about to be formed in the corner of the 
room, and that the Duc d’Anjou, with the Comte de Guiche, and the Cheva- 
lier de Lorraine, prevented from talking aloud, might say, in a whisper, 
what it was not convenient should be said. He was beginning then to dart 
at them glances full of mistrust and uneasiness, inviting Anne of Austria 
to throw perturbation amidst the unlawful assembly, when, suddenly, 
Bernouin, entering under the tapestry of the bedroom, whispered in the ear 
of Mazarin, “ Monseigneur, an envoy from his majesty the king of Eng- 
land.” 

Mazarin could not help exhibiting a slight emotion, which was perceived 
by the king. To avoid being indiscreet, still less than not to appear use- 
less, Louis XIV. rose immediately, and approaching his eminence, wished 
him good night. All the assembly had risen with a great noise of rolling of 
chairs and tables being pushed away. 

“Let everybody depart by degrees,” said Mazarin in a whisper to 
ouis XIV., “and be so good as to excuse me a few minutes. I am going 
to expedite an affair about which I wish to converse with your majesty this 
| very evening.” 

“‘ And the queens ?” asked Louis XIV. 

** And M. le duc d’Anjou,” said his eminence. 

_ At the same time he turned round in his vwed/e, the curtains of which, 
in falling, concealed the bed. The cardinal, nevertheless, did not lose 
sight of the conspirators. 

**M. le comte de Guiche,” said he in a fretful voice, whilst putting on, 
behind the curtain, his robe de chambre, with the assistance of Ber- 
nouin. 

“T am here, monseigneur,” said the young man, as he approached. 

“Take my cards, you are lucky. Win a little money for me of these 
gentlemen.” 

“ Yes, monseigneur.” 

The young man sat down at the table from which the king withdrew to 
talk with the two queens. A serious game was commenced between the 
comte and several rich courtiers. In the mean time Philip was discussing 
questions of dress with the Chevalier de Lorraine, and they had ceased to 
hear the rustling of the cardinal’s silk robe from behind the curtain. His 
eminence had followed Bernouin into the closet adjoining the bed-room 


CHAPTER XL. 
AN AFFAIR OF STATE. 


THE cardinal, on passing into his cabinet, found the Comte de la Fére, 
who was waiting for him, engaged in admiring a very fine Raphael placed 
over a side-board covered with plate. His eminence came in softly, lightly, 
and silently as a shadow, and surprised the countenance of the comte, as 
he was accustomed to do, pretending to divine by the simple expression 
of the face of his interlocutor, what would be the result of the conversation. 
But, this time, Mazarin was disappointed in his expectation ; he read 
nothing upon the face of Athos, not even the respect he was accustomed 
to meet with on all faces, Athos was dressed in black, with a simple lacing 


re 


184 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


of silver. He wore the Holy Ghost, the Garter, and the Golden Fleece, 
three orders of such importance, that a king alone, or else a player, 
could wear them at once. . 

Mazarin rummaged a long time in his somewhat troubled memory to 
recall the name he ought to give to this icy figure, but he did not succeed. 
“T am told,” said he, at length, ‘ you have a message from England for me.” 

And he sat down, dismissing Bernouin, who, in his quality of secretary, 
was getting his pen ready. ; 

“On the part of his majesty, the king of England, yes, your eminence.” 

“You speak very good French, for an Englishman, monsieur,” said 
Mazarin graciously, looking through his fingers at the Holy Ghost, Garter, 
and Golden Fleece, but more particularly at the face of the messenger. 

“Tam not an Englishman, but a Frenchman, monsieur le cardinal,” 
replied Athos. 

“Tt is remarkable that the king of England should choose a French- 
man for his ambassador ; it is an excellent augury. Your name, monsieur, 
if you please.” ; 

“Comte de la Fére,” replied Athos, bowing more slightly than the | 
ceremonial and pride of the all-powerful minister required. 

Mazarin bent his shoulders, as if to say :—‘‘I do not know that name.” 

Athos did not alter his carriage. 

“And you come, monsieur,” continued Mazarin, “to tell me 

“T come on the part of his majesty the king of Great Britain to’ an- 
nounce to the king of France——” Mazarin frowned. ‘“ To announce to 
the king of France,” continued Athos, imperturbably, “the happy restora- 
tion of his majesty Charles II. to the throne ofhis ancestors.” 

This shade did not escape his cunning eminence. Mazarin was too 
much accustomed to mankind, not to see in the cold and almost haughty 
politeness of Athos, an index of hostility, which was not of the tempera- 
ture of that hot-house called a court. : 

“You have powers, I suppose ?” asked Mazarin, in a short querulous tone. 

““'Yes, monseigneur.” And the word “ monseigneur” came so painfully 
from pt of Athos, that it might be said it skinned them. . 


) 


“Tn that case, show them.” 

Athos took from an embroidered velvet bag which he carried under his 
pourpotnt,a despatch. The cardinal held out his hand for it. “ Your 
pardon, monseigneur,” said Athos. ‘ My despatch is for the king.” 

“Since you are a Frenchman, monsieur, you ought to know what the 
position of a prime minister is at the court of France.” 

“There was a time,” replied Athos, “when I occupied myself with the 
importance of prime ministers ; but I have formed, long ago, a resolution 
to treat no longer with any but the king.” 

“Then, monsieur,” said Mazarin, who began to be irritated, “you will 
neither see the minister nor the king.” ) ; 

Mazarin rose. Athos replaced his despatch in its bag, bowed gravely 
and made several steps towards the door. This coolness exasperated 
Mazarin. “What strange diplomatic proceedings are these !” cried he. 
‘* Are we again in the times in which Cromwell sent us bullies in the guise 
of chargés @affaires ? You want nothing, monsieur, but the steel cap on 
your head, and a bible at your girdle.” 

“Monsieur,” said Athos drily, “I have never had, as you have, the © 
advantage of treating with M. Cromwell ; and I have only seen his chargés 
@ affaires sword in hand : I am therefore ignorant of how he treated with 
prime ministers. As for the king of England, Charles II., I know that 


AN AFFAIR OF STATE. 185 


when he writes to his majesty king Louis XIV., he does tot write to his 
eminence the Cardinal Mazarin. I see no diplomacy in that distinction.” 

“Ah!” cried Mazarin, raising his attenuated hand, and striking his 
head : “I remember now !” Athos looked at him in astonishment. “ Yes, 
that is it !” said the cardinal, continuing to look at his interlocutor ; “ yes, 
that is certainly it. I know you now, monsieur. Ah! déavolo! I am no 
longer astonished.” 

“Tn fact, I was astonished that with the excellent memory your eminence 
has,” replied Athos, smiling, ‘you have not recognised me before.” 

“ Always refractory and erumbling—monsieur—monsieur—What do they 
call you? Stop—a name of a river—Potamos ; no—the name of an island 
—Naxos ; no, per Giove !—the name of a mountain—Athos! now I have 
it. Delighted to see you again, and to be no longer at Rueil, where you 
and your damned companions made me pay ransom. Fronde ! still 
Fronde! accursed Fronde! Oh, what grudges! Why, monsieur, have 
your antipathies survived mine ? if any one had cause to complain, I think 
it could not be you, who got out of the affair not only in a sound skin, but 

\ with the cordon of the Holy Ghost round your neck.” 

»,. “ Monsieur le cardinal,” replied Athos, “ permit me not to enter into con- 
siderations of that kind. I have a mission to fulfil. Will you facilitate the 
‘means for my fulfilling that mission, or will you not ?” 

| “Tam astonished,” said Mazarin, —“ quite delighted at having regained 
* the remembrance ;” ‘and, bristling with malicious points, “I am astonished, 
“ monsieur—Athos—that a Frondeur like you should have accepted a mis- 
sion to Mazarin, as used to be said in the good old times ” And 
Mazarin began to laugh, in spite of a painful cough, which cut short his 
sentences, converting them into sobs. 

“TJ have only accepted the mission to the king of France, monsieur le 
cardinal,” retorted the comte, though with less asperity, for he thought he 
had sufficiently the advantage to show himself moderate. 

“And yet, Monsieur le Frondeur,’ said Mazarin gaily, “the affair with 
which you charge yourself must, from the king , 

“With which I am charged, monseigneur. I do not run after affairs,” 

“Be it so. I say that this negotiation must pass through my hands, 
Let us lose no precious time, then. Tell me the conditions.” 

“]T have had the honour of assuring your eminence that the letter alone 
of his majesty King Charles II. contains the revelation of his wishes.” 

“Pooh! you are ridiculous with your obstinacy, Monsieur Athos. It is 
plain you have kept company with the Puritans yonder. As to your secret, 
I know it better than you do; and you have done wrongly, perhaps, in not 
having shown some respect ‘for a very old and suffering man, who has 
laboured much during his life, and kept the field bravely for his ideas, as 
you have for yours.—You will not communicate your letter to me ?—You 
will say nothing to me?—Wonderfully well! Come with me into my 
chamber ; you shall speak to the king—and before the king.—Now then, 
one last word: who gave you the Fleece? I remember you passed for 
having the Garter; but as to the Fleece, I did not know 

* Recently, monseigneur, Spain, on the occasion of the marriage of his 
majesty Louis XIV., sent King Charles II. a dvevet of the Fleece in blank ; 
Charles II, immediately transmitted it to me, filling up the blank with my 
name,” 

Mazarin arose, and leaning on the arm of Bernouin, he returned to his 

| ruelle at the moment the name of M. le Prince was being announced. The 
Prince de Condé, the first prince of the blood, the conqueror of Rocroy 


186 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


Lens, and Nordlingen, was, in fact, entering the apartment of Monseigneur 
de Mazarin, followed by his gentlemen, and had already saluted the king, 
whén the prime minister raised his curtain. Athos had time to see Raoul 
pressing the hand of the Comte de Guiche, and to return him a smile for 
his respectful bow. He had time, likewise, to see the radiant countenance of 
the cardinal, when he perceived before him, upon the table, an enormous heap 
of gold, which the Comte de Guiche had won in a run of luck, after his 
eminence had confided his cards to him. So, forgetting ambassador, 
embassy, and prince, his first thought was of the gold. ‘“ What!” cried the 
old man—“ all that—won ?” 

“ Some fifty thousand crowns ; yes, monseigneur,” replied the Comte de 
Guiche, rising. “Must I give up my place to your eminence, or shall I 
continue ?” 

“Give up! give up! you are mad. You would lose all you have won, 
Peste [” 

“ Monseigneur !” said the Prince de Condé, bowing. 

“Good evening, Monsieur le Prince,” said the minister, in a careless 
tone ; “it is very kind of you to visit an old sick friend.” 

“A friend !” murmured the Comte de la Fére, at witnessing with stupor 
this monstrous alliance of words ;—“ friend! when the parties are Condé 
and Mazarin !” 

Mazarin seemed to divine the thought of the Frondeur, for he smiled 
upon him with triumph, and immediately,—“ Sire,” said he to the king, 
“TI have the honour of presenting to your majesty, Monsieur le comte de 
la Fére, ambassador from his Britannic majesty. An affair of state, mes- 
sieurs,” added he, waving his hand to all who filled the chamber, and who, 
the Prince de Condé at their head, all disappeared at the simple gesture. 
Raoul, after a last look cast at the comte, followed M.-de Condé. Philip 
of Anjou and the queen appeared to be consulting about departing. 

“ A family affair,” said Mazarin, suddenly, detaining them in their seats. 
“This gentleman is bearer of a letter, in which King Charles I1., com- 
pletely restored to his throne, demands an alliance between Monsieur, the 
brother of the king, and Mademoiselle Henrietta, granddaughter of 
plenty 1s Will you remit your letter of credit to the king, monsieur le 
comte ?” . 

Athos remained for a minute stupefied. How could the minister possibly 
know the contents of the letter, which had never been out of his keeping 
for a single instant? Nevertheless, always master of himself, he held out 
the despatch to the young king, Louis XIV., who took it with a blush. A 
solemn silence reigned in the chamber of the cardinal. It was only, 
troubled by the dull sound of the gold which Mazarin, with his yellow, 
dry hand, piled up in a cof/re¢, whilst the king was reading. 


oe ee 


CHAPTER XEU 
THE RECITAL. 


THE malice of the cardinal did not leave much for the ambassador to say; 
nevertheless, the word “restoration” had struck the king, who, addressing 
the comte, upon whom his eyes had been fixed since his entrance,— 
“Monsieur,” said he, “ will you have the kindness to give us some details 
of English affairs. You come from that country, you are a Frenchmar 


and the orders which I see glitter upon your person announce you to b 
# man of merit as well as a man of quality.” ae is 


| 


THE RECITAL, 187 


‘ “Monsieur,” said the cardinal, turning towards the queen-mother, “is 
an ancient servant of your majesty’s, Monsieur le comte de la Fére.” 
Anne of Austria was as oblivious as a queen whose life had been mingled 


with fine and stormy days. She looked at Mazarin, whose malign smile 


promised her some little disagreeable ; then she solicited from Athos, by 
another look, an explanation. : 

“Monsieur,” continued the cardinal, “was a Tréville musketeer, in the 
service of the late king. Monsieur is well acquainted with England, 
whither he has made several voyages at various periods; he isa subject 
of the highest merit.” 

These words made allusion to all the remembrances which Anne of 
Austria trembled to evoke. England, that was her hatred of Richelieu 
and her love of Buckingham ; a Tréville musketeer, that was the whole 
Odyssey of the triumphs which had made the heart of the young woman 
throb, and of the dangers which had been so near overturning the throne 
of the young queen. These words had much power, for they rendered 
mute and attentive all the royal personages, who, with very various senti- 
ments, set about recomposing at the same time the mysterious, which 
the young had not seen, and which the old had believed to be for ever 
effaced. 

“Speak, monsieur,” said Louis XIV., the first to escape from troubles, 
suspicions, and remembrances. 

“Yes, speak,” added Mazarin, to whom the little piece of malice inflicted 
upon Anne of Austria had restored energy and gaiety. 

“Sire,” said the comte, “a sort of miracle has changed the whole des- 
tiny of Charles IJ. That which men, till that time, had been unable todo, 
God resolved to accomplish.” 

Mazarin coughed, while tossing about in his bed. 

“King Charles II.,’ continued Athos, “left the Hague neither as a 
fugitive nor a conqueror, but like an absolute king, who, after a distant 
voyage from his kingdom, returns amidst universal benedictions.” 

“A great miracle, indeed,” said Mazarin; “ for, if the news was true, 
King Charles II., who has just returned amidst benedictions, went away 
amidst musket-shots.” 

The king remained impassible. Philip, younger and more frivolous, 
could not repress a smile, which flattered Mazarin as an applause of his 
pleasantry. 

“It is plain,” said the king, “there is a miracle ; but God, who does so 
much for kings, monsieur le comte, nevertheless employs the hands of man 
to bring about the triumph of His designs. To what men does Charles II. 
principally owe his re-establishment ?” 

“Why,” interrupted Mazarin, “ without any regard for the self-love of 
the king, does not your majesty know that it is to M. Monk ?” 

“T ought to know it,” replied Louis XIV., resolutely ; “and yet I ask 
monsieur, the ambassador, the causes of the change in this Monsieur 
Monk ?” 

“And your majesty touches precisely the question,” replied Athos ; “for 
without the miracle I have had the honour to speak of, Monsieur Monk 
would probably have remained an implacable enemy to Charles II. God 
willed that a strange, bold, and ingenious idea should enter into the mind 
of a certain man, whilst a devoted and courageous idea took possession of 
the mind of another man. The combination of these two ideas brought 
about such a change in the position of M. Monk, that, from an inveterate 
enemy, he became a friend to the deposed king.” 


188 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“ These are exactly the details I asked for,” said the king. “Who and 
what are. the two men of whom you speak ?” 

“ Two Frenchmen, sire.” 

“Indeed ! I am glad of that.” 

“‘ And the two ideas,” said Mazarin ;—“I am more curious about ideas 
than about men, for my part.” 

“Ves,” murmured the king. 

“The second idea, the devoted, reasonable idea—the least important, 
sire—was to go and dig up a million in gold, buried by King Charles I. at 
Newcastle, and to purchase with that gold the adherence of Monk.” 

“Oh, oh !” said Mazarin, reanimated by the word million. “ But New- 
castle was at the time occupied by Monk.” 

“Yes, monsieur le cardinai, and that is why I venture to call thé idea 
courageous as well as devoted. It was necessary, if Monk refused the 
offers of the negotiator, to reinstate King Charles II. in possession o 
this million, which was to be torn, as it were, from the loyalty and not 
the loyalism of General Monk. This was effected, in spite of many diffi- 
culties : the general proved to be loyal, and allowed the money to be 
taken away.” 

“Tt seems to me,” said the timid, thoughtful king, “that Charles II. 
could not have known of this million whilst he was in Paris.” 

“Tt seems to me,” rejoined the cardinal maliciously, “that his majesty 
the king of Great Britain knew perfectly well of this million, but that he 
preferred having two millions to having one.” 

“Sire,” said Athos firmly, “the king of England, whilst in France, was 
so poor that he had not even money to take the post ; so destitute of hope 
that he frequently thought of dying. He was so entirely ignorant of the 
existence of the million at Newcastle, that but for a gentleman—one of 
your majesty’s subjects—the moral depositary of the million, and who re- 
vealed the secret to King Charles II., that prince would still be vegetating 
in the most cruel forgetfulness.” 

“Let us pass on to the strange, bold, and ingenious idea,” interrupted 
Mazarin, whose sagacity foresaw a check. ‘What was that idea ?” 

* This—M. Monk formed the only obstacle to the re-establishment of 
the fallen king. A Frenchman imagined the idea of suppressing this 
obstacle.” 

“Oh! oh! but that is a scoundrel, that Frenchman,” said Mazarin; 
“and the idea is not so ingenious as to prevent its author being tied up by 
the neck at the Place de Gréve, by decree of the parliament.” 

“Your eminence is mistaken,” replied Athos, dryly ; “I did not say that 
the Frenchman in question had resolved to assassinate M. Monk, but only 
to. suppress him. The words of the French language have a value which 
the gentlemen of France know perfectly. Besides this is an affair of war ; 
and when men serve kings against their enemies they are not to be con- 
demned by a parliament—God is their judge. This French gentleman, 
then, formed the idea of gaining possession of the person of Monk, and he 
executed his plan.” 

The king became animated at the recital of great actions. The king’s 
eciers brother struck the table with his hand, exclaiming, “ Ah! that 
is fine ! 

“He carried off Monk?” said the king. “ Why, Monk was in his camp,” 

“ And the gentleman was alone, sire.” . 

“That is marvellous !” said Philip. 

** Marvellous indeed !” cried the king. 


THE RECITAL, 189 


‘Good! There are two littie lions unchained,” murmured the car- 
dinal, And with an air of spite, which he did not dissemble: “I am un- 
acquainted with these details, will you guarantee the authenticity of them, 
monsieur ?” 

“All the more easily, monsieur le cardinal, from having seen the events.” 

‘You have ?” : 

“Yes, monseigneur.” 

The king had involuntarily drawn close to the comte, the Duc d’Anjou 
had turned sharply round, and pressed Athos on the other side. 

** Next ! monsieur, next !” cried they both at the same time. 

“Sire, M. Monk, being taken by the Frenchman, was brought to King 
Charles II., at the Hague. The king restored Monk his liberty, and the 
grateful general, in return, gave Charles II. the throne of Great Britain, 
for which so many valiant people have died without result.” 

Philip clapped his hands with enthusiasm, Louis XIV., more reflective, 
turned towards the Comte de la F¢re. 

“Ts this true,” said he, “ in all its details ?” 

“ Absolutely true, sire.” 

“That one of my gentlemen knew the secret of the million, and kept it ?” 

Ves, Sire t. 

“ The name of that gentleman ?” 

“It was your humble servant,” said Athos, simply, and bowing. 

A murmur of admiration made the heart of Athos swell with pleasure. 
He had reason to be proud, at least. Mazarin, himself, had raised his 
arms towards heaven. 

‘“‘ Monsieur,” said the king, “ I will seek, I will find means to reward you.” 
Athos made amovement. “Oh, not for your probity, to be paid for that 
would humiliate you ; but I owe you areward for having participated in 
the restoration of my brother, King Charles II.” 

“ Certainly,” said Mazarin. 

“Tt is the triumph of a good cause which fills the whole house of France 
with joy,” said Anne of Austria. , 
~- “JT continue,” said Louis XIV. : “Is it also true, that a single man pene- 
trated to Monk, in his camp, and carried him off?” 

- “That man had ten auxiliaries, taken from a very inferior rank,” 

“ And nothing but them ?” 

* Nothing more.” 

* And you call him ?” 

“ Monsieur d’Artagnan, formerly lieutenant of the musketeers of your 
majesty.” 

Anne of Austria coloured; Mazarin became yellow with shame; 
Louis XIV. was deeply thoughtful, and a drop of sweat fell from his pale 
brow. “What men!” murmured he. And, involuntarily he darted a 
glance at the minister, which would have terrified him, if Mazarin, at the 
moment, had not concealed his head under his pillow. 

“Monsieur,” said the young Duc d’Anjou, placing his hand, delicate and 
white as that of a wornan, upon the arm of Athos, “tell that brave man, I 
beg you, that Monsieur, brother of the king, will, to-morrow, drink his 
health before five hundred of the best gentlemen of France.” And, on 
finishing these words, the young man, perceiving that his enthusiasm had 
deranged one of his ruffles, set to work to put it to rights with the greatest 
care imaginable. 

“Let us resume business, sire,” interrupted Mazarin, who never was 
enthusiastic, and who had no ruffles on. 


190 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“Ves, monsieur,” replied Louis XIV. “ Enter upon your communication, 
monsieur le comte,” added he, turning towards Athos. 

Athos immediately commenced, and offered in due form the hand ofthe 
Princess Henrietta Stuart to the young prince, the king’s brother. The 
conference lasted an hour; after which the doors of the chamber were | 
thrown open to the courtiers, who resumed their places, as if nothing © 
had been kept from them in the occupations of that evening. Athos then 
found himself again with Raoul, and the father and son were able to clasp 
hands once more. 


ee ee 


CHAPTER ALIL 
IN WHICH MAZARIN BECOMES PRODIGAL. 


WHILST Mazarin was endeavouring to recover from the serious alarm 
he had just experienced, Athos and Raoul were exchanging a few words 
in a corner of the apartment. “ Well, here you are in Paris, then, Raoul ?” 
said the comte. 

‘‘ Yes, monsieur, since the return of M. le Prince.” 

‘“T cannot converse freely with you here, because we are observed ; 
but I shall return home presently, and shall expect you as soon as your 
duty permits.” 

Raoul bowed, and, at that moment, M. le Prince came up to them. 
The prince had that clear and keen look which distinguishes birds of 
prey of the noble species : his physiognomy itself presented several distinct 
traits of this resemblance. It is known, that in the Prince de Condé, the 
aquiline nose rose out sharply and incisively from a brow slightly retreat- 
ing, rather low than high, which, according to the railers of the court, a 
pitiless race, even for genius, constituted rather an eagle’s beak than a 
human nose, in the heir of the illustrious princes of the house of Condé. 
This penetrating look, this imperious expression of the whole countenance, 
generally disturbed those to whom the prince spoke, more than either 
majesty or regular beauty could hive done in the conqueror of Rocroy. 
Besides this, the fire mounted so suddenly to his projecting eyes, that with 
the prince every sort of animation resembled passion. . Now, on account 
of his rank, everybody at the court respected M. le Prince, and many even, 
seeing only the man, carried their respect as far as terror. Louis de Condé 
then advanced towards the Comte de la Fére and Raoul, with the marked 
intention of being saluted by the one, and of speaking to the other. No 
man bowed with more reserv:. grace than the Comte de la Fére. He 
disdained to put into a salutation all tlie shades which a courtier ordinarily 
borrows from the same colour—the desire to please. Athos knew his own 
personal value, and bowed to the prince like a man, correcting by some- 
thing sympathetic and undefinabl. that which might have appeared 
offensive to the pride of the highest rar’ in the inflexibility of his attitude. 
The prince was about to speak to Raoul. Athos prevented him. “If M. le 
vicomte de Bragelonne,” said he, “ were not one of the humble servants of 
your royal highness, I would beg him to pronounce my name before you— 
mon prince.” 


a have the honour to address Monsieur le comte de la Fére,” said, 
Condé, instantly. 

§ ay protector,” added Raoul, blushing. 

“One of the most honourable men in the kingdom,” continued the 
prince; “one of the first gentlemen of France, and of whom I have 


MAZARIN BECOMES PRODIGAL. 191 


heard so much, that I have frequently desired to number him among my 
friends.” 

“ An honour of which I should be unworthy,” replied Athos, “ but for 
the respect and admiration I entertain for your royal highness.” 

‘Monsieur de Bragelonne,” said the prince, “ is a good officer, who, it is 
plain, has been to a good school. Ah, monsieur le comte, in your time, 
generals had soldiers !” 

“That is true, monseigneur ; but nowadays soldiers have generals.” 

This compliment, which savoured so little of flattery, made to thrill with 
joy aman whom already Europe considered a hero, and who might be 
thought to be satiated with praise. 

“] very much regret,” continued the prince, “that you should have re- 
‘tired from the service, monsieur le comte ; for it is more than probable 
that the king will soon have a war with Holland or England, and oppor- 
tunities for distinguishing himself would not be wanting for a man who, 
like you, knows Great Britain as well as you do France.” 

- “T believe I may say, monseigneur, that I have acted wisely in retiring 
rom the service,” said Athos, smiling. “France and Great Britain will 
,enceforward live like two sisters, if 1 can trust my presentiments.” 

“Your presentiments ?” 

“Stop, monseigneur, listen to what is being said yonder, at the table of 
monsieur le cardinal.” 

‘Where they are playing ?” 

“Yes, monseigneur.” 

The cardinal had just raised himself upon one elbow, and made a sign 
to the king’s brother, who went to him. ‘“ Monseigneur,” said the cardinal, 
“pick up, if you please, all those gold crowns.” And he pointed to the 
enormous pile of yellow and glittering pieces which the Comte de Guiche 
had raised by degrees before him, by a surprising run of luck at play. 

“For me ?” cried the Duc d’Anjou. 

“Those fifty thousand crowns ; yes, monseigneur, they are yours.” 

“Do you give them to me ?” 

“T have been playing on your account, monseigneur,” replied the cardinal, 
getting weaker and weaker, as if this effort of giving money had exhausted . 
all his physical and moral faculties. 

“Oh, good heavens !” exclaimed Philip, wild with joy, “ what a fortunate 
day!” And he himself, making a rake of his fingers, drew a part of the 
sum into his pockets, which he filled, and still full a third remained on the 
table. 

“Chevalier,” said Philip to his favourite, the Chevalier de Lorraine, 
“come hither, Chevalier.” The favourite quickly obeyed. “Pocket the 
rest,” said the young prince. 

This singular scene was only taken by the persons present as a touch- 
ing kind of family 2¢e. The cardinal assumed the airs of a father with 
the sons of France, and the two young princes had grown up under: his 
wing. No one then imputed to pride, or even impertinence, as would 
be done nowadays, this liberality on the part of the first minister. The 
courtiers were satisfied with envying the prince.—The king turned away 
his head. ™ 

“T never hadso much money before,” said the young prince, joyously, as 
he crossed the chamber with his favourite, to go to his carriage. “ No, 
never! What a weight these crowns are !” 

“But why has monsieur le cardinal given the money all at once ?” asked 
Monsieur le Prince of the Comte de la Fére. “ He must be very ill, the 
dear cardinal !” | 


192 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. | 


“Ves, monseigneur, very ill, without doubt ; he looks very ill, as your | 
royal highness may perceive.” 

“ Certes ! but he will die of it. A hundred and fifty thousand livres ! 
Oh, itis incredible! But why, comte? Tell mea reason for it ?” 

‘“¢ Patience, monseigneur, I beg of you. Here comes M. le Duc d’Anjou, , 
talking with the Chevalier de Lorraine ; I should not be surprised if they { 
spared us the trouble of being indiscreet. Listen to them.” 

In fact, the chevalier said to the prince in a low voice, “ Monseigne | 
is not natural for M. Mazarin to give you so much money. Take cuc! 
you will let some of the pieces fall, monseigneur, What design has the | 
cardinal upon you, to make him so generous ?” 

“ As I said,” whispered Athos in the prince’s ear; “that perhaps, is the | 
pest reply to your question.” 

“Tell me, monseigneur,” reiterated the chevalier impatiently, as he was ( 
calculating, by weighing them in his pocket, the quarter of the sum which, 
had fallen to his share by rebound. 

“ My dear chevalier, a nuptial present.” 

“ How, a nuptial present !” ) 

“Eh! yes, I am going to be married !” replied the Duc d’Anjou, withou/¢ 
perceiving, at the moment he was passing, the prince and Athos, who both 
bowed respectfully. | 

The chevalier darted at the young duke a glance so strange and so) 
malicious, that the Comte de la Fére quite started at beholding it. 

“You! you be married !” repeated he; “oh! that’s impossible.— You 
would not commit such a folly !” 

“Bah! I don’t do it myself; I am made to do it,” replied the Duc 
dAnjou. “ But come, quick! let us get rid of our money.” Thereupon he 
disappeared with his companion, laughing and talking, whilst all heads 
were bowed on his passage. 

“ Then,” whispered the prince to Athos, “ that is the secret.” 

“Tt was not I that told you so, monseigneur.” 

“He is to marry the sister of Charles II. ?” 

“TI believe so.” 

_ The prince reflected for a moment, and his eye shot forth one of its not 
unfrequent flashes. ‘ Humph !” said he slowly, as if speaking to himself; 
“once more our swords are to be hung on the wall—for a long time !” and 
he sighed. 

All which that sigh contained of ambition silently stifled, of illusions 
extinguished and hopes disappointed, Athos alone divined, for he alone 
had heard that sigh. Immediately after, the prince took leave and the 
king left the apartment. Athos, by a sign made to Bragelonne, renewed 
the desire he had expressed at the commencement of the scene. By de- 
grees the chamber was deserted, and Mazarin was left alone, a prey to 
sufferings which he could no longer dissemble. ‘“ Bernouin! Bernouin !” 
cried he, in a broken voice. 

“What does monseigneur want ?” 

“ Guénaud—let Guénaud be sent for,” said his eminence. “I think I 
am dying.” 

Bernouin, in great terror, rushed into the cabinet to give the order, and 
the gzgueur, who hastened to fetch the physician, passed the king’s carriage 
in the Rue Saint-Honoré. 


% 


GUENA UD. 193 


CHAPTER XLII. 
GUENAUD. 


THE order of the cardinal was pressing ; Guénaud quickly obeyed it. He 
found his patient stretched upon his bed, his legs swelled, livid, and his 
tomach collapsed. Mazarin had just undergone a severe attack of gout. 
e suffered cruelly, and with the impatience of a man who has not been 
ccustomed to resistances. On the arrival of Guénaud : “Ah !” said he, 
now I am saved !” 

Guénaud wasa very learned and circumspect man, who stood in no need 
of the critiques of Boileau to obtain a reputation. When in face of a 
disease, if it were personified in a king, he treated the patient as a Turk 
r Moor. He did not therefore reply to Mazarin as the minister expected : 
‘Here is the doctor ; good-bye, disease.” On the contrary, on examining 
is patient, with a very serious air : 

“Oh ! oh!” said he. 

“ih! what! Guénaud! How you look !” 

“T look as I ought to do on seeing your complaint, monseigneur ; itis a 
ry dangerous one.” 

“The gout—Oh! yes, the gout.” 

“With complications, monseigneur.” 
| Mazarin raised himself upon his elbow, and, questioning by look and 
gesture: “ What do you mean by that? Am I worse than I believe my- 
self to be ?” 

“ Monseigneur,” said Guénaud, seating himself by the bed, “ your’ 
eminence has worked very hard during your life ; your eminence has suf- 
fered much.” 

“But I am not old, I fancy.—The late M. de Richelieu was but seven- 
teen months younger than I am, when he died—and died of a mortal 
disease. I am young, Guénaud ; remember I am scarcely fifty-two.” 

“ Oh ! monseigneur, you are much more than that.—How long did the 
Fronde last ?” 

“For what purpose do you put such a question to me?” 

“For a medical calculation, monseigneur.” 

“Well ! some ten years—off and on.” 

“Very well; be kind enough to reckon every year of the Fronde as 
three years—that makes thirty ; now twenty and fifty-two make seventy- 
two years. You are seventy-two, monseigneur ! and that is a great age.” 

Whilst saying this, he felt the pulse of his patient. This pulse was filled 
with such fatal prognostics, that the physician continued, notwithstanding 
the interruptions of the patient :—“ Put down the years of the Fronde at 
four each, and you have lived eighty-two years.” 

“‘ Are you speaking seriously, Guénaud ?” 

“ Alas ! yes, monseigneur.” 

“You take a roundabout way, .then, to announce to me that I am 
very ill?” 

“ Ma foi! yes, monseigneur, and with a man of the mind and courage 
of your eminence, it ought not to be necessary to do so.” 

The cardinal breathed with such difficulty that he inspired pity even in 
a pitiless physician. “ There are diseases and diseases,” resumed Mazarin. 
“From some of them people escape.” 

“ That is true, monseigneur.” 
“Ts it not ?” cried Mazarin, almost joyously ; “for, in short, what else 


13 


~ 
oS 


104 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


would be the use of power, of strength, of will? Of what use would genius 
be—your genius, Guénaud? Of what use would be science and art, if the 
patient, who disposes of all that, cannot be saved from peril >” 

Guénaud was about to open his mouth, but Mazarin continued. 

“Remember,” said he, “I am the most confiding of your patients ; re- , 
member I obey you blindly, and that consequently-——” 

“ T know all that,” said Guénaud. 

“ T shall be cured, then ?” 

“ Monseigneur, there is neither strength of will, nor power, nor genius, | 
nor science that can resist a disease which God doubtless sends, sad 
which he cast upon the earth at the creation, with full power to destroy | 
and kill mankind. When the disease is mortal, it kills, and nothing | 
can i ) 

“‘ Is—my—disease—mortal ?” asked Mazarin. 5 

“Yes, monseigneur.” \ 

His eminence sunk down for a moment, like an unfortunate wretch who 
is crushed by a falling column. But the spirit of Mazarin was a strong | 
one, or rather his mind was a firm one. “Guénaud,” said he, recovering’ 
from the first shock, “you will permit me to appeal from your judgment. [., 
will call together the most learned men of Europe ; I will consult them. ay 
will live, in short, by the virtue of I care not what remedy.” e 

““Monseigneur must not suppose,” said Guénaud, “that I have the pre- 
sumption to pronounce alone upon an existence so valuable as yours. I 
have already assembled all the good physicians and practitioners of France 
and Europe. There were twelve of them.” 

“ And they said——” 

“They said that your eminence was attacked with a mortal disease ; I 
have the consultation signed in my portfolio. If your eminence will please 
to see it, you will find the names of all the incurable diseases we have met 
with. There is first——” 

“No, no!” cried Mazarin, pushing away the paper. “No, no, Guénaud, 
I yield! I yield!” And a profound silence, during which the cardinal re- 
sumed his senses and recovered his strength, succeeded to the agitation of 
this scene. “There is another thing,” murmured Mazarin ; “there are 
empirics and charlatans. In my country, those whom physicians abandon, 
run ‘the chance of a vendor of orvietan, which ten times kills them, but a 
hundred times saves them.” 

‘Has not your eminence observed, that during the last month I have 
altered my remedies ten times ?” 

“Yes.—Well ?” 

‘Well, I have spent fifty thousand livres in purchasing the secrets of all 
these fellows: the list is exhausted, and so is my purse. You are not 
cured ; and, but for my art, you would be dead.” 

“That ends it!’ murmured the cardinal; “that ends it—~—” And 
he threw a melanchcly look upon the riches which surrounded him. 
“And must I quit all that?” sighed he. “I am dying, Guénaud! I am 
dying !” 

* “Oh! not yet, monseigneur,” said the physician. 

Mazarin seized his hand. “In what time?” asked he, fixing his two 
large eyes upon the impassible countenance of the physician. de 

‘““ Monseigneur, we never tell that.” \? 

“To ordinary men, perhaps not ;—but to me—to me, whose every min 
is worth a treasure. Tell me, Guénaud, tell me !” 

* No, no, monseigneur.” ; 


GUENAUD, . 195 


*T insist upon it, I tell you. Oh! give mea month, and for every one 
of those thirty days I will pay you a hundred thousand livres.” 

“ Monseigneur,” replied Guénaud, in a firm voice, “ it is God who can 
give you days of grace, and not I. God only allows you a fortnight.” 

The cardinal breathed a painful sigh, and sunk back upon his pillow, 
murmuring, “ Thank you, Guénaud, thank you !” 
- The physician was about to depart ; the dying man raising himself up : 
“Silence !” said he, with eyes of flame, “silence !” 

“* Monseigneur, I have known this secret two months ; ; you see that I 
have kept it faithfully.” 

“Go, Guénaud ; I will take care of your fortunes ; go, and tell Brienne 
to send me a clerk called M. Colbert. Go!” 


—— ——_— 


| CHAPTER XLIV. 
COLBERT. 


COLBERT was not far off. During the whole evening he had remained in 
ne of the corridors, chatting with Bernouin and Brienne, and commenting, 
With the ordinary skill of people of a court, upon the views which deve- 
loped themselves, like air-bubbles upon the water, on the surface of each 
event. It is doubtless time to trace, in a few words, one of the most 
interesting portraits of the age, and to trace it with as much truth , perhaps, 
as contemporary painters have been able to do. Colbert was a man in 
whom the historian and the moralist have an equal right. He was thirteen 
years older than Louis XIV., his future master. Of middle height, rather 
thin than otherwise, he had deep-set eyes, a mean appearance, coarse 
black and thin hair, which, say the biographers of his time, made him 
take early to the ca/otte. A look full of severity, of harshness even, a sort 
of stiffness, which, with inferiors, was pride, with superiors, an affectation 
of superior virtue ; a surly cast of countenance upon all occasions, even 
when looking at himself in a glass alone—such is the exterior of the per- 
sonage. Asto the moral part of his character, the depth of his talent for 
accounts, and his ingenuity in making sterility itself productive, were much 
boasted of. Colbert had formed the idea of forcing governors of frontier 
places to feed the garrisons without pay, with what they drew from con- 
tributions. Such a valuable quality made Mazarin think of replacing 
Joubert, his intendant, who was recently dead, by M. Colbert, who had 
such skill in nibbling down allowances. Colbert by degrees crept into the 
court, notwithstanding the meanness of his birth, for he was the son of a 
man who sold wine as his father had done, but who afterwards sold cloth, 
and then silk stuffs. Colbert, destined for trade, had been a clerk to a 
merchant at Lyons, whom he had quitted to come to Paris in the office of 
a Chatelet procureur named Biterne. It was here he had learnt the art of 
drawing up an account, and the much more valuable one of complicating 
it. This stiffness of Colbert’s had been of great benefit to him ; so true is 
it that Fortune, when she has a caprice, resembles those women of anti- 
quity, whose fantasy nothing physical or moral, in either things or men, 
disgusted. Colbert, placed. with Michel Letellier, secretary of state in 
| 1648, by his cousin Colbert, seigneur de Saint-Penange, who favoured him, 
received one day from the minister a commission for Cardinal Mazarin. 
His eminence was then in the enjoyment of flourishing health, and the 
bad years of the Fronde had not yet counted triple and quadruple for him. 
He was at Sedan, very much annoyed at a court intrigue in which Anne 


Be oe 


196 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


of Austria appeared to wish to desert his cause. Of this intrigue Letellier 
held the thread. He had just received a letter from Anne of Austria, a 
letter very valuable to him, and strongly compromising Mazarin ; but, as 
he already played the double part which served him so well, and by which 
he always managed two enemies so as to draw advantage from both, either 
by embroiling them more and more or by reconciling them, Michel Letel- 
lier wished to send Anne of Austria’s letter to Mazarin, in order that he 
might be acquainted with it, and consequently would be pleased with his 
having rendered him a service so willingly. To send the letter was an 
easy matter ; to recover it again, after having communicated it, that was 
the difficulty. Letellier cast his eyes around him, and seeing the black 
and meagre clerk scribbling away with his scowling brow, in his office, he 
preferred him to the best gendarme for the execution of this design. 

Colbert was commanded to set out for Sedan, with positive orders to 
carry the letter to Mazarin, and bring it back to Letellier. He listened 
to his orders with scrupulous attention, required it to be repeated to him 
twice, and was particular in learning whether the bringing back was as 
necessary as the communicating, and Letellier replied sternly, “More 
necessary.” Then he set out, travelled like a courier, without any care foy 
his body, and placed in the hands of Mazarin, first a letter from Letellier, 
which announced to the cardinal the sending of the precious letter, and 
then that letter itself Mazarin coloured greatly whilst reading Anne o 
Austria’s letter, gave Colbert a gracious smile, and dismissed him. 

“When shall I have the answer, monseigneur ?” 

“To-morrow.” 

“To-morrow morning ?” 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

The clerk turned upon his heel, after sporting his very best bow. The 
next day he was at his post at seven o’clock. Mazarin made him wait till 
ten. He remained patiently in the antechamber ; his turn being come, he 
entered. Mazarin gave him a sealed packet. Upon the envelope of this 
packet were these words :—A Monsieur Michel Letellier, &c. Colbert 
looked at the packet with much attention ; the cardinal put on a pleasant 
countenance, and pushed him towards the door. 

“ And the letter of the queen-mother, monseigneur ?” asked Colbert. 

“Tt is with the rest in the packet,” said Mazarin. 

“Oh! very well,” replied Colbert; and placing his hat between his 
knees, he began to unseal the packet. 

Mazarin uttereda cry. ‘ What are you doing ?” said he angrily. 

“T am unsealing the packet, monseigneur.” 

“You mistrust me, then, master cwzs¢ve, do you? Did any one ever see 
such impertinence ?” 

“Oh! monseigneur, do not be angry with me ? It is certainly not your 
eminence’s word I place in doubt, God forbid !” 

“ What then ?” 

“It is the carefulness of your chancery, monseigneur. What is a letter? 
A rag. May not a rag be forgotten? And, look, monseigneur, look if I 
oe right. Your clerks have forgotten the rag; the letter is not in the 
packet. 

“You are an insolent fellow, and you have not looked,” cried Mazarin, 
very angrily; “begone and wait my pleasure.” Whilst saying these words, | 
with subtlety perfectly Italian, he snatched the packet from the hands of. 
Colbert, and re-entered his apartments. 

But this anger could not last so long as not to be replaced in time by 


COLBERT. 197 


reason. Mazarin, every morning, on opening his closet door, found the 
figure of Colbert as a sentinel behind the bench, and this disagreeable 
figure never failed to ask him humbly, but with tenacity, for the queen- 
mother’s letter. Mazarin could hold out no longer, and was obliged to 
give it up. He accompanied this restitution with a most severe reprimand, 
during which Colbert contented himself with examining, feeling, even 
smelling, as it were, the papers, the characters, and the signature, neither 
more nor less than if he had had to do with the greatest forger in the 
kingdom. Mazarin behaved more rudely still to him, but Colbert, still 
impassible, having obtained a certainty that the letter was the true one, 
went off as if he had been deaf. This conduct afterwards was worth the 
post of Joubert to him ; for Mazarin, instead of bearing malice, admired 
him, and was desirous of attaching so much fidelity to himself. 

It may be judged, by this single anecdote, what the character of Colbert 
| was. Events, developing themselves, by degrees allowed all the powers 
of his friend to act freely. Colbert was not long in insinuating himself 
im the good graces of the cardinal: he became even indispensable to 


him. The clerk was acquainted with all his accounts, without the car- 

inal’s ever having spoken to him about them. This secret between them 
was a powerful tie, and this was why, when about to appear before the 
Master of another world, Mazarin was desirous of taking good counsel in 
disposing of the wealth he was so unwillingly obliged to leave in this 
world. After the visit of Guénaud, he therefore sent for Colbert, desired 
him to sit down, and said to him: “ Let us converse, Monsieur Colbert, 
and seriously, for I am very sick, and I may chance to die.” 

“Man is mortal,” replied Colbert. 

“I have always remembered that, M. Colbert, and I have worked in 
that prevision. You know that I have amassed a little wealth.” 

“Tl know you have, monseigneur.” 

“At how much do you estimate, as near as you can, the amount of this 
wealth, M. Colbert ?” 

“ At forty millions, five hundred and sixty thousand, two hundred livres, 
nine sous, eight deniers,” replied Colbert. 

The cardinal fetched a deep sigh, and looked at Colbert with wonder ; 
but he allowed a smile to steal across his lips. 

“Property known,” added Colbert, in reply to that smile. 

The cardinal made quite a start in hisbed. ‘ What do you mean by 
that ’” said he. 

“TJ mean,” said Colbert, “that besides those forty millions, five hundred 
and sixty thousand, two hundred livres, nine sous, eight deniers, there are 
thirteen millions that are not known of.” 

“ Ouf / sighed Mazarin, “ what a man !” 

At this moment the head of Bernouin appeared through the embrasure 
of the door. 

‘What is it?” asked Mazarin, “and why do you disturb me ?” 

“The Theatin father, your eminence’s director, was sent for this eve- 
ning; and he cannot come again to monseigneur till after to-morrow.” 

Mazarin looked at Colbert, who arose and took his hat, saying: “I 
will come again, monseigneur.” 

Mazarin hesitated. ‘No, no,” said he; “I have as much business to 
transact with you as with him. Besides, you are my other confessor—and 
what I have to say to one, the other may hear. Kemain where you are, 
Colbert.” 

“But, monseigneur, if there be a secret of penitence, will the director 
consent to my being here ;” 


198 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“ Do not trouble yourself about that, come into the vzelle.” 

*T can wait outside, monseigneur.” 

““ No, no, it will do you good to hear the confession of a rich man.” 
Colbert bowed, and went into the rele. 

“ Introduce the Theatin father,” said Mazarin, closing the curtains, 


es | 


ede Wa ag 19 a Sp) He 
CONFESSION OF A MAN OF WEALTH. | 


THE Theatin entered deliberately, without being too much astonished at the - 
noise and agitation which anxiety for the health of the cardinal had raised 
in his household. “Come in, my reverend father,” said Mazarin, after a 
last look at the vweZ/e, “ come in, and console me.” 

“That is my duty, monseigneur,” replied the Theatin. 

“ Commence by sitting down, and making yourself comfortable, for I am 
going to begin by a general confession ; you will afterwards give me a good 
absolution, and I shall believe myself more tranquil.” | . 

“‘ Monseigneur,” said the father, “you are not soill as tomake a gener 
confession urgent—and it will be very fatiguing—take care.” 

“You suspect, then, that it may be long, father ?” 

“How can I think it otherwise, when a man has lived so completely as 
your eminence has done.” 

“Ah; that is true !—yes—the recital may be long.” 

“The mercy of God is great !” snuffled the Theatin. 

“Stop,” said Mazarin, “there I begin to terrify myself with having 
allowed so many things to pass which the Lord might reprove.” 

“Is not that always so?” said the Theatin, naively, removing further 
from the lamp his thin pointed face, like that of a mole. “Sinners areso: 
forgetful beforehand, and scrupulous when it is too late?” 

“ Sinners ?” replied Mazarin. “Do you use that word ironically, and to 
reproach me with all the genealogies I have allowed to be made on my 
account—I—the son of a fisherman, in fact.”* 

“Hum !” said the Theatin. 

“That is a first sin, father ; for 1 have allowed myself to be made to be 
descended from two old Roman consuls, S. Geganius Macerinus Ist, 
Macerinus 2nd, and Proculus Macerinus 3rd, of whom the Chronicle of 
Haolander speaks. From Macerinus to Mazarin the proximity was tempt- 
ing. Macerinus, a diminutive, means leanish, poorish, out of case. Oh! 
reverend father! Mazarini may now be carried to the augmentative 
Margre, ihin as Lazarus. Look !”—and he showed his fleshless arms. 

“In your having been born of a family of fishermen (péecheurs) I see 
nothing injurious to you ; for—St. Peter was a fisherman ; and if you are 
a prince of the church, monseigneur, he was the supreme head of it. 
Pass on, if you please.” 

So much the more for my having threatened with the Bastille a certain 
Bounet, a priest of Avignon, who wanted to publish a genealogy of the 
Casa Mazarini much too marvellous.” . 

“To be probable ?” replied the Theatin. 

“Oh! if I had acted up to his idea, father, that would have been the 
vice of pride,—another sin.” 


| 
* This is quite untranslatable—it being a play upon the words pécheur, & sinner. . 
and pécheur, a fisherman, | It is in very bad taste.—TRANS, 


. 


CONFESSION OF A MAN OE WEALTH, 199 


“It was excess of wit, and a person is not to be reproached with such 
sorts of abuses. Pass on, pass on !” 

“J was all pride. Look you, father, I will endeavour to divide that 
from capital sins.” 

“*T like divisions, when well made.” 

“T am glad of that. You must know that in 1630—alas ! that is thirty- 
one years ago !” 

“You were then twenty-nine years old, monseigneur.” 

“A hot-headed age. I was then something of a soldier, and I threw 
myself at Casal into the arquebusades, to show that I rode on horseback 
as well as an officer. It is true, I restored peace between the French and 
the Spaniards. That redeems my sina little.” 

“T see no sin in being able to ride well on horseback,” said the Theatin; 
“that is in perfect good taste, and does honour to our gown. In my quality 
of a Christian, I approve of your having prevented the effusion of blood ; 
in my quality of a monk, I am proud of the bravery a monk has exhibited.” 

Mazarin bowed his head humbly. “ Yes,” said he, “but the conse- 
quences ?” 

“What consequences ?” 

“Eh! that damned sin of pride has roots without end. From the time 
that I threw myself in that manner between two armies, that I had smelt 
powder and faced lines of soldiers, I have held generals a little in con- 
tempt.” 

“Ah !” said the father. 

“There is the evil ; so that I have not thought one supportable since 
that time.” 

“The fact is,” said the Theatin, “that the generals we have had have 
not been remarkable.” 

“Oh!” cried Mazarin, “ there was monsieur le prince. I have tormented 
him thoroughly.” 

‘“‘He is not much to be pitied; he has acquired sufficient glory, and 
sufficient wealth.” 

“That may be, for monsieur le prince ; but M. Beaufort, for example— 
whom I made suffer so long in the dungeons of Vincennes ?” 

“Ah ! but he was a rebel, and the safety of the state required that you 
should make a sacrifice.— Pass on ?” 

“T believe I have exhausted pride. There is another sin which I am 
afraid to qualify.” 

“T will qualify it myself—Tell it.” 

“ A great sin, reverend father !” 

“We shall judge, monseigneur.” 

* You cannot fail to have heard of certain relations which I have had— 
with her majesty the queen-mother—the malevolent ? 

“The malevolent, monseigneur, are fools.—Was it not necessary, for the 
good of the state and the interests of the young king, that you should live 
in good intelligence with the queen?—Pass on, pass on !” 

“‘T assure you,” said Mazarin, “ you remove a terrible weight from my 
breast.” 

“ These are all trifles !—Look for something serious.” 

“T have had much ambition, father.” 

“ That is the march of great minds and things, monseigneur.” 

“ Even that trifle of the tiara ?” 

Hg be pope is to be the first of Christians. —Why should you not desire 
t at ’ 


) 


200 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“Tt has been printed that, to gain that object, I had sold Cambrai to the 
Spaniards.” : . 

“You have, perhaps, yourself written pamphlets without too much perse- 
cuting pamphleteers.” 

“Then, reverend father, I have truly a clean breast. I feel nothing 
remaining but slight peccadilloes.” 

“What are they ?” " Play.” 

“That is rather mundane ; but you were obliged by the duties of great- 
ness to keep a good house.” 

“T like to win.” 

“No player plays to lose.” 

“licheated a diitte.” 

“You took your advantage.—Pass on.” 

“Well! reverend father, I feel nothing else upon my conscience. Give 
me absolution, and my soul will be able, when God shall please to call it, 
to mount without obstacle to the throne z 

The Theatin moved neither his arms nor his lips. “ What are you wait- 
ing for, father ?” said Mazarin. 

“‘T am waiting for the end.” 

“The end of what ?” 

“ Of the confession, monseigneur.” 

“But I have ended.” 

“Oh, no ; your eminence is mistaken.” 

“Not that I know of.” 

“Search diligently.” 

“I have searched as well as possible.” 

“Then I will assist your memory.” Do.” 

The Theatin coughed several times. “You have said nothing of 
avarice, another capital sin, nor of those millions,” said he. 

“ Of what millions, father ?” 

“Why of those you possess, monseigneur.” 

‘Father, that money is mine, why should I speak to «~u about that ?” 

“Because, see you, our opinions differ You say that money is yours, 
whilst I, I believe it is rather the property of others.” 

Mazarin lifted his cold hand to his brow, which was dewed with sweat. 
“ How so ?” stammered he. 

“This way. Your excellency has gained much wealth—in the service 
of the king.” 

“Hum! much that is not too much.” 

“Whatever it may be, whence came that wealth ?” 

“From the state.” 

“The state, that is the king.” 

“ But what do you conclude from that, father?” said Mazarin, who began 
to tremble. 

“T cannot conclude without seeing a list of the riches you possess. Let 
us reckon a little, if you please. You have the bishopric of Metz ?” 

LES.” 

A The abbeys of St. Clement, St. Arnould, and St. Vincent, all at Metz 2”. 
——" Yes.” 

‘You have the abbey of St. Denis, in France,—a magnificent property?” 

“Yes, father.” : * 

* You have the abbey of Cluny, which is rich ?” “T have.” 

“ That of St. Midaré, at Soissons, with a revenue of a hundred thousand 
livres ?” “I cannot deny it.” 


CONFESSION OF A MAN OF WEALTH. 201 


“That of St. Victor, at Marseilles,—one of the best in the south?” 
“Yes, father.” 
“A good million a year. With the emoluments of the cardinalship and 
the paisley I say too little when I say two millions a year.” 
ERT? 
“In ten years that is twenty millions,—and twenty millions placed out 
at fifty per cent. give, by progression, twenty-three millions in ten years.” 
** How well you reckon for a Theatin.” 
‘‘ Since your eminence placed our order in the convent we occupy, near 
St. Germain des Prés, in 1641, I have kept the accounts of the society.” 
“ And mine likewise, apparently, father.” 
“One ought to know a little of everything, monseigneur.” 
“Very well. Conclude at present.” 
“T conclude that your baggage is too heavy to allow you to pass through 
the gates of Paradise.” 
* Shall I be damned ?” 
“Tf you do not make restitution, yes.” 
Mazarin uttered a piteous cry. ‘“ Restitution !—but to whom, good 
God? 
' “To the owner of that money,—to the king.” 
. “But the king did not give it me all.” 
“A moment—does not the king sign the ordonnances ?”’ 
Mazarin passed from sighs to groans. “Absolution ! absolution !” 
cried he. 
“Impossible, monseigneur. Restitution! restitution !” replied the 
Theatin. 
“ But you absolve me from all other sins, why not from that?” 
“ Because,” replied the father, “to absolve you for that motive would 
be a sin for which the king would never absolve me, monseigneur.” 
Thereupon the confessor quitted his penitent with an air full of com- 
punction. He then went out in the same manner as he had entered. 
“Oh, good God !” groaned the cardinal. “Come here, Colbert; I am 
very, very ill indeed, my friend.” 


CHAPTER XLVI. 
THE DONATION. 


COLBERT reappeared beneath the curtains. 

‘‘ Have you heard ?” said Mazarin. 

‘Alas! yes, monseigneur.” 

“Can he be right? Can all this money be badly acquired ?” 

“ A Theatin, monseigneur, is a bad judge in matters of finance,” replied 
Colbert, coolly. “And yet it is very possible that, according to his theo- 
logical ideas, your eminence has been, in acertain degree, wrong. People 
generally find they have been : ),—when they die.” 

‘Tn the first place, they commit the wrong of dying, Colbert.” 

“That is true, monseigneur. Against whom, however, did the Theatin 
make out that you had committed these wrongs? Against the king ?” 

Mazarin shrugged his shoulders. ‘As if I had not saved both his state 
and its finances.” 

“That admits of no contradiction, monseigneur.” 

“Does it? Then I have received a merely legitimate salary, in spite of 
the opinion of my confessor ?” 


202 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“ That is beyond doubt.” 

“ And I might fairly keep for my own family, which is so needy, a good | 
fortune,—the whole even of what I have gained ?” 

‘‘T see no impediment to that, monseigneur.” 

““T felt assured that in consulting you, Colbert, I should have sage 
advice,” replied Mazarin, greatly delighted. 

Colbert assumed his pedantic look. “ Monseigneur,” interrupted he, ‘‘ [| 
think it would be quite as well to examine whether what the Theatin said 
is not a szare.” 

“Oh! no;asnare? What for? The Theatin is an honest man.” 

“He believed your eminence to be at the gates of the tomb, because 
your eminence consulted him. Did not I hear him say,—‘ Distinguish 
that which the king has given you from that which you have given 
yourself.’ Recollect, monseigneur, if he did not say something a little like 
that to you ?—that is quite a theatrical speech.” 

“That is possible.” 

“In which case, monseigneur, I should consider you as required by the 
Theatin to——” 

“To make restitution !” cried Mazarin, with great warmth. 

“Eh! I do not say no.” 

“What, of all! you do not dream of such a thing ! You speak just as 
the confessor did.” \ 

“To make restitution of a part,—that is to say, his majesty’s part ; and 
that, monseigneur, may have its dangers. Your eminence is too skilful a 
penton not to know that, at this moment, the king does not possess a 

undred and fifty thousand livres clear in his coffers.” : 

“That is not my affair,” said Mazarin, triumphantly; “that belongs to 
M. le Surintendant Fouquet, whose accounts I have given you to verify 
for months past,” 

Colbert bit his lips at the name only of Fouquet. “His majesty,” said 
he, between his teeth, “has no money but that which M. Fouquet collects ; 
your money, monseigneur, would afford hima delicious banquet.” 

“Well, but I am not the szvcz~tendant of his majesty’s finances—I have 
my purse—certes, I would do much for his majesty’s welfare—some legacy 
—but I cannot disappoint my family.” 

“The legacy of a part would dishonour you and offend the king. 
Leaving a part to his majesty, is to avow that that part has inspired you 
with doubts as not being acquired legitimately.” 

“Monsieur Colbert !” 

“‘T thought your eminence did me the honour to ask my advice ” 

“Yes, but you are ignorant of the principal details of the question.” 

“T am ignorant of nothing, monseigneur; during ten years, all the 
columns of figures which are found in France, have passed in review 
before me; and if I have painfully nailed them into my brain ; they are 
there now so well riveted, that, from the office of M. Letellier, which is 
sober, tothe little secret largesses of M. Fouquet, who is prodigal, I could 
recite, figure by figure, all the money that is spent in France, from Mar- 
seilles to Cherbourg.” 

“Then, you would have me throw all my money into the coffers of the 
king?” cried Mazarin, ironically ; and from whom at the same time, the 
gout forced painful moans. ‘“Certes, the king would reproach me with 
nothing, but he would laugh at me, while squandering my millions, anc . 
with reason.” 

“Your eminence has misunderstood me. I did not, the least inthe 
world, pretend that his majesty ought to spend your money,” 


4 


THE DONATION. 203 


“Vou said so, clearly, it seems to me, when you advised me to give it 
to him.” 

“ Ah !” replied Colbert, ‘‘ that is because your eminence, absorbed as you 
are by your disease, entirely loses sight of the character of Louis XIV.” 

‘** How so?” 

. “That character, if I may venture to express myself thus, resembles 
that which monseigneur confessed just now to the Theatin.” 

“Go on—that is ?” 

“Pride! Pardon me, monseigneur, haughtiness, nobleness ; kings 
shave no pride, that is a human passion.” 

“Pride, yes, you are right—next ?” 

_ Well, monseigneur, if I have divined rightly, your eminence has but to 
give all your money to the king, and that immediately.” 

— “ But what for,” said Mazarin, quite bewildered. 

“ Because the king will not accept of the whole.” 

“What, and he a young man, and devoured by ambition ?” 

“Just so.” 

“A young man who is anxious for my death !” ——“ Monseigneur !” 

“To inherit, yes, Colbert, yes ; he is anxious for my death in order to 
nherit. Triple fool that 1am! I would prevent him !” 

“Exactly ; if the donation were made in a certain form, he would refuse it.” 

“Well ; but how ?” 

“That is plain enough. A young man who has yet done nothing—who 
burns to distinguish himself—who burns to reign alone,will never take 
anything ready built, he will construct for himself. This prince, monseig- 
neur, will never be content with the Palais Royal, which M. de Richelieu 
left him, nor with the Palais Mazarin which you have caused to be so su- 
perbly constructed, nor with the Louvre, which his ancestors inhabited ; 
nor with St. Germains, where he was born, All that does not proceed 
from himself, I predict he will disdain.” 

“And you will guarantee, that if I give my forty millions to the 
king v 

' “Saying certain things to him at the same time, I guarantee he will 
refuse them.” 
_ “ But those things—what are they ?” 

“J will write them, if monseigneur will have the goodness to dictate them.” 

“Well, but, after all, what advantage will that be to me ?” 

“An enormous one. Nobody will afterwards be able to accuse your 
eminence of that unjust avarice with which pamphleteers have re- 
proached the most brilliant mind of the present age.” 

“You are right, Colbert, you are right ; go, and seek the king, on my 
part, and carry him my will.” 

“Your donation, monseigneur.” 

“But, if he should accept it ; if he should even think of accepting it.” 

“Then there would remain thirteen millions for your family, and that 
is a good round sum.” ' 

“But then you would be either a fool or a traitor.” 

“ And I am neither the one nor the other, monseigneur. You appear to 
be much afraid the king will accept ; you have a deal more reason to feat 
that he will not accept.” 

“ But, see you, ifhe does not accept, I should like to guarantee my thir- 
teen reserved millions to him—yes, I will do so—yes. But my pains are 
pot ie, I shall faint. I am very, very ill, Colbert ; I am very near my 
end! 


} 
| 


204. THE VICOMTEV DE EBRAGELTONDE, 


Colbert started. The cardinal was indeed very ill; large drons of | 
sweat flowed down upon his bed of agony, and the frightful paleness of a 
face streaming with water, was a spectacle which the most hardened — 
practitioner could not have beheld without compassion. Colbert was, with- 
out doubt, very much affected, for he quitted the chamber, calling Bernouin | 
to attend the dying man, and went into the corridor. There, walking | 
about with a meditative expression, which almost gave nobleness to his | 
vulgar head, his shoulders thrown up, his neck stretched out, his lips half- 
open, to give vent to unconnected fragments of incoherent thoughts, he 
lashed up his courage to the pitch of the undertaking contemplated, whilst 
within ten paces of him, separated only by awall, his master was being 
stifled by anguish, which drew from him lamentable cries, thinking no 
more of the treasures of the earth, or of the joys of Paradise, but much of 
all the horrors of hell. Whilst burning-hot napkins, topicals, revulsives, 
and Guénaud, who was recalled, were performing their functions with 
increased activity, Colbert, holding his great head in both his hands, to 
compress within it the fever of the projects engendered by the brain, 
was meditating the tenor of the donation he would make Mazarin write, | 
at the first hour of respite his disease should afford him. It would appear, 
as if all the cries of the cardinal, and all the attacks of death upon this 
representative of the past, were stimulants for the genius of this thinker 
with the bushy eye-brows, who was turning already towards the rising of 
the new sun of a regenerated society. Colbert resumed his place at} 
Mazarin’s pillow at the first interval of pain, and persuaded him to dictate 
a donation thus conceived. 


“About to appear before God, the Master of mankind, I beg the king, 
who was my master on earth, to resume the wealth which his bounty has 
bestowed upon me, and which my family would be happy to see pass into 
such illustrious hands. The particulars of my property will be found— 
they are drawn up—at the first requisition of his majesty, or at the last 
sigh of his most devoted servant. 


“‘ JULES, Cardinal de Mazarin.” 


The cardinal sighed heavily as he signed this ; Colbert sealed the 
packet, and carried it immediately to the Louvre, whither the king had 
returned. 

He then went back to his own home, rubbing his hands with the con- 
fidence of a workman who has done a good day’s work. 


CHAPTER VARY ti 


HOW ANNE OF AUSTRIA GAVE ONE PIECE OF ADVICE TO LOUIS XIV., 
AND HOW M. FOUQUET GAVE HIM ANOTHER. 


THE news of the extremity into which the cardinal had fallen had already 
spread, and attracted at least as much attention among the people of the 
Louvre as the news of the marriage of Monsieur, the king’s brother, which 
had already been announced as an official fact. Scarcely had Louis XIV. 
returned home, with his thoughts fully occupied with the various things 
he had seen and heard in the course of the evening, when an usher an- 
nounced that the same crowd of courtiers, who, in the morning, had 
thronged his dever, presented themselves again at his coucher, a remark- 
able piece of respect which, during the reign of the cardinal, the court, 
not very discreet in its preferences, had accorded to the minister with- 
out caring about displeasing the king. 


ADVICE GIVEN TO LOUIS XIV. 205 


But the minister had had, as we have said, an alarming attack of gout, 
and the tide of flattery was mounting towards the throne. Courtiers have 
amarvellous instinct in scenting events beforehand ; courtiers possess a 
supreme kind of science ; they are diplomatists to throw a light upon the 
unravelling of difficult circumstances, captains to divine the issue of 
battles, and physicians to cure thesick. Louis XIV., to whom his mother 
had taught this axiom, among many others, understood at once that mon- 
sieur le cardinal must be very ill. Scarcely had Anne of Austria conducted 
the young queen to her apartments and relieved her brows of the head- 
dress of ceremony, when she went to seek her son in his cabinet, where, 
alone, melancholy, and depressed, he was indulging, as if to exercise his 
will, in one of those terrible inward passions—kings’ passions—which create 
events when they break out, and which, with Louis XIV., thanks to his asto- 
nishing command over himself, became such benign tempests, that his most 
violent, his only passion, that which F. Simon mentions with astonish- 
ment, was that famous passion of anger which he exhibited fifty years 
later, on the occasion of a little concealment of the Duc de Maine’s, and 
which had for result a shower of blows inflicted with a cane upon the 

ack of a poor valet who had stolen a biscuit. The young king then was, 

s we have seen, a prey to a double excitement ; and he said to himself, 
as he looked in a glass, “O king !—king by name, and not in fact ;— 
phantom, vain phantom as thou art!—inert statue, which has no other 
power than that of provoking salutations from courtiers, when wilt thou be 
able to raise thy velvet arm, or clench thy silken hand? when wilt thou 
be able to open for any purpose but to sigh or smile, lips condemned to 
the motionless stupidity of the marbles of thy gallery ?” 

Then, passing his hand over his brow, and feeling the want of air, he 
apgroached a window, whence he saw below some cavaliers talking 
together, and groups of the timidly curious. These cavaliers were a 
fraction of the watch; the groups were busy portions of the people, to 
whom a king is alwaysa curious thing, as a rhinoceros, a crocodile, or a 
serpent is. He struck his brow with his open hand, crying,—“ King of 
France! what atitle! People of France! what a heap of creatures! [| 
have just returned to my Louvre ; my horses, just unharnessed, are still 
smoking, and I have created interest enough to induce scarcely twenty 
persons to look at me as I passed. Twenty! what do I say? no; there 
were not twenty anxious to see the king of France. There are not even 
ten archers to guard my place of residence ; archers, people, guards, all 
are at the Palais Royal! Why, my good God! have not I, the king, the 
right to ask of you all that ?” ; 

“‘ Because,” said a voice, replying to his, and which sounded from the 
other side of the door of the cabinet, “ because at the Palais Royal there 
is all the gold,—that is to say, all the power of him who desires to 
reign.” 

iis turned sharply round. The voice which had pronounced these 
words was that of Anne of Austria. The king started, and advanced 
towards her. “I hope,” said he, ‘‘ your majesty has paid no attention to 
the vain declamations with which the solitude and disgust familiar to kings, 
give the idea to the happiest characters ?” 

“T only paid attention to one thing, my son, and that was that you 
were complaining.” 

“Who! 1? Notat all,” said Louis XIV. ; “no, in truth, you mistake, 
madame.” 

“ What were you doing then ?” 


” BRAG F | 
206 THE VICOMTE DE BRALXLONNE. | 

“T thought I was under the ferule of my professor, and was developing | 
a subject of amplification.” | 

“My son,” replied Anne of Austria, shaking her head, “you are wrong — 
not to trust to my word ; you are wrong not to grant me your confidence. 
A day will come, perhaps quickly, wherein you will have occasion to re- ; 
member that axiom :—Gold is universal power ; and they alone are kings ; 
who are all powerful.” i 

“ Your intention,” continued the king, “ was not, however, to cast blame} 
upon the rich of this age, was it ?” t 

“No,” said the queen, warmly ; “no sire ; they whoare rich in this age, 
under your reign, are rich because you have been willing they should be so i 
and I entertain for them neither malice nor envy; they have, without 
doubt, served your majesty sufficiently well for your majesty to have per-, 
mitted them to reward themselves. That is what I mean to say by the, 
words for which you reproach me.” | 

“God forbid, madame, that I should ever reproach my mother with | 
anything !” 

‘‘ Besides,” continued Anne of Austria, “ the Lord never gives the goods; 
of this world but for a season; the Lord—as correctives to honour and 
riches—the Lord has placed sufferings, sickness, and death ; and no one,'r 
added she, with a melancholy smile, which proved she made the appli-f 
cation of the funereal precept to herself, ‘no one can take their wealth ort 
their greatness with them into the tomb. It thence results that the young? 
gather the abundant harvest prepared for them by the old.” 

Louis listened with increased attention to the words which Anne of 
Austria, no doubt, pronounced with a view of consoling him. “ Madame,” 
said he, looking earnestly at his mother, “one would almost, in truth, say 
you had something else to announce to me.” 

“JT have absolutely nothing, my son; only you cannot have failed to 
remark that monsieur le cardinal is very ill.” 

Louis looked at his mother, expecting some emotion in her voice, some 
sorrow in her countenance. ‘The face of Anne of Austria was apparently 
a little changed, but that was from a suffering of quite a personal charac- 
ter. Perhaps the alteration was caused by the cancer which had begun 
to consume her breast. “Yes, madame,” said the king; “yes, M. de 
Mazarin is very ill.” f 

“And it would be a great loss to the kingdom if his eminence were to be 
called away by God. Is not that your opinion as well as mine, my son ?” 
said the queen. 

“Yes, madame ; yes, certainly, it would be a great loss for the kingdom,” 
said Louis, colouring ; “but the peril does not seem to me to be so great ; 
besides, monsieur le cardinal is young yet.” The king had scarcely ceased 
speaking when an usher lifted the tapestry, and stood with a paper in his 
hand, waiting for the king to interrogate him. 

“What have you there ?” asxed the king. 

“A message from M. de Mazarin,” replied the usher. 

“Give it to me,” said the king; and he took the paper. But at the 
moment he was about to open it, there was a great noise in the gallery, the 
antechamber, and the court. 

“ Ah, ah !” said Louis XIV., who without doubt knew what the triple 
noise meant. “ What did I say, there was but one king in France! I was | 
mistaken, there are two.” | 

As he spoke or thought thus, the door opened, and the surintendant of | 
the finances, Fouquet, appeared before his nominal master. It was he who } 


ADVICE GIVEN TO LOUIS XIV. 209 


made the noise in the antechamber, it was his horses that made the noise 
in the court. In addition to all this a loud murmur was heard along his 
passage, which did not die away till some time after he had passed. It 
_was this murmur which Louis XIV. so much regretted not hearing as he 

passed, and dying away behind him. 

| “He is not precisely a king, as you fancy,” said Anne of Austria to her 
son ; “he is only a man who is much too rich—that is all.” 

Whilst saying these words, a bitter feeling gave to the words of the queen 
a most malicious expression ; whereas the brow of the king, calm and self- 
possessed, on the contrary, was without the slightest wrinkle. He nodded, 
therefore, familiarly to Fouquet, whilst he continued to unfold the paper 
given to him by the usher. Fouquet perceived this movement, and with 
a politeness at once easy and respectful, advanced towards the queen, so 
as not to disturb the king. Louis had opened the paper, and yet he 
did not read it. He listened to Fouquet making the most charming 
compliments to the queen upon her hand and arm. The frown of Anne 
of Austria relaxed a little, she even almost smiled. Fouquet perceived that 
the king, instead of reading, was attending to him; he turned half round, 
erefore, and thus, whilst continuing to be engaged with the queen, faced 
e king. 

“You know, Monsieur Fouquet,” said Louis, “how ill M. Mazarin is ?” 
“Yes, sire, I know that,” said Fouquet ; “in fact he is very ill. I was 
jat my country house of Vaux when the news reached me; and the affair 
seemed so pressing that I left at once.” 

“You left Vaux this evening, monsieur ?” 

“ An hour and a half ago, yes, your majesty,” said J ouquet, consulting 
a watch richly ornamented with diamonds. 

“ An hour and a half!” said the king, still able to restrain his anger, but 
not to conceal his astonishment. 

“JT understand you, sire. Your majesty doubts my word, and you have 
reason to do so ; but I have really come so quickly, though it is wonderful. 
I have received from England three pairs of very fast horses, as I had been 
assured. They were placed at distances of four leagues apart, and I have 
tried them this evening. They really brought me from Vaux to the 
Louvre in an hour and a half, so your majesty sees I have not been 
cheated.” The queen-mother smiled with something like secret envy. But 
Fouquet caught her thought. ‘“ Thus, madame,” he promptly said, “such 
horses are made for kings, not for subjécts ; for kings ought never to yield 
to any one in anything.” The king looked up. 

_“And yet,” interrupted Anne of Austria, “you are nota king, that I know 
of, M. Fouquet.” 

“Truly not, madame ; therefore the horses only wait the orders of his 
majesty to enter the royal stables ; and if I allowed myself to try them, it 
was only out of the fear of offering to the king anything that was not 
positively wonderful.” 

The king became quite red. 

“You know, Monsieur Fouquet,” said the queen, “that at the court of 
France it is not the custom fora subject to offer anything to his king.” 

Louis started. 

_“I hoped, madame,” said Fouquet, much agitated, “that my love for 
his majesty, my incessant desire to please him, would serve as a coun- 
terpoise to that reason of etiquette. It was not, besides, so much a present 
that I permitted myself to offer, as a tribute I paid.” 

“Thank you, Monsieur Fouquet,” said the king politely, “and I am 


208 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


gratified by your intention, for I love good horses; but you know I am 
not very rich, you, who are my surintendant of finances, know it better than 
any one else. I am not able then, however willing I may be, to purchase 
such a valuable set of horses.” 

Fouquet darted a look of haughtiness at the queen-mother, who ap- 
peared to triumph at the false position the minister had got into, and 
replied: 

“Luxury is the virtue of kings, sire; it is luxury which makes them 
resemble God; it is by luxury they are more than other men. With 
luxury a king nourishes his subjects, and honours them. Under the mild 
heat of this luxury of kings springs the luxury of individuals, a source 
of riches for the people. His majesty, by accepting the gift of these six 
incomparable horses, would have piqued the self-love of the breeders of 
our country, of Limousin, Perche, and Normandy; and this emulation 
would have been beneficial to all. But the king is silent, and consequently 
I am condemned.” 

During this speech, Leuis was, unconsciously, folding and unfolding 
Mazarin’s paper, upon which he had not cast his eyes. At length he 
glanced upon it, and uttered a faint cry at reading the first line. 

“What is the matter, my son?” asked the queen anxiously, and goin 
towards the king. ; 

“From the cardinal,” replied the king, continuing to read ; “yes, yes, it 
is really from him.” 

“Is he worse, then ?” 

“ Read !” said the king, passing the parchment to his mother, as if he 
thought that nothing less than reading would convince Anne of Austria of 
a thing so astonishing as was conveyed in that paper. 

Anne of Austria read in her turn, and, as she read, her eyes sparkled 
with a joy the more lively for her uselessly endeavouring to hide it, which 
attracted the attention of Fouquet. 

‘““Oh! a regularly drawn up deed of donation,” said she. 

“A donation ?” repeated Fouquet. 

“Yes,” said the king, replying pointedly to the surintendant of finances ; 
“yes, at the point of death, monsieur le cardinal makes me a donation of 
all -his wealth.” 

“Forty millions !” cried the queen. “Oh, my son! this is very noble 
on the part of monsieur le cardinal, and will silence all malicious rumours ; 
forty millions scraped together slowly, coming back all in one heap to 
the treasury! It is the act of a faithful subject and a good Christian.” 
And having once more cast her eyes over the act, she restored it to 
Louis XIV., whom the announcement of the sum quite agitated. Fouquet 
had made some steps backward, and remained silent. The king looked - 
at him, and held the paper out to him, inhis turn. The surintendant only. . 
bestowed a haughty look of a second upon it ; then bowing,—“ Yes, sire,* 
said he, “a donation, I see.” | 

“You must reply to it, my son,” said Anne of Austria ; “ you must reply 
to it, and that immediately.” 

“ But how, madame ?” 

“ By a visit to the cardinal.” 

é Why, it is but an hour since I left his eminence, said the king. 

- Write, then, sire.” 

; Write said the young king, with evident repugnance. 

Well ” replied Anne of Austria, “it seems to me, my son, that a man 
who has just made such a present, has a good right to expect to be thanked 


ADVICE GIVEN TO LOUIS XIV. 209 


for it with some degree of promptitude.” Then turning towards Fouquet, 
“Ts not that likewise your opinion, monsieur ?” 

_ “That the present is worth the trouble. Yes, madame,” said Fouquet, 
with a lofty air that did not escape the king. 

“ Accept, then, and thank him,” insisted Anne of Austria. 

“What says M. Fouquet ?” asked Louis XIV. 

“Does your majesty wish to know my opinion ?”-—“‘ Yes.” 

Thank him, sire——” 

“Ah !” said the queen. 

“ But do not accept,” continued Fouquet. 

‘And why not?” asked the queen. 

“You have yourself said why, madame,” continued Fouquet ; “ because 
sings ought not and cannot receive presents from their subjects.” 

The king remained mute between these two so opposite opinions. 

“But forty millions !” said Anne of Austria, in the same tone as that in 
vhich, at a later period, poor Marie Antoinette replied, “ Yeu will tell me 
as much !” 

“T know,” said Fouquet laughing, “ forty millions are a good round sum 
such a sum as could almost tempt a royal conscience.” 

“But, monsieur,” said Anne of Austria, “instead of persuading the king 
ot to receive this present, recall to his majesty’s mind, you, whose duty 
is, that these forty millions are a fortune to him.” 

“It is precisely, madame, -ccause these forty millions would be a fortune 
that I will say to the king, ‘ Sire, if it be not decent for a king to accept 
from a subject six horses, worth twenty thousand livres, it would be dis- 
graceful for him to owe a fortune to another subject, more or less scru- 
pulous in the choice of the materials which contributed to the building up 
of that fortune.” 

“Tt ill becomes you, monsieur, to give your king a lesson,” said Anne 
of Austria ; “rather procure him forty millions to replace those you make 
him lose.” 

“ The king shall have them whenever he wishes,” said the surintendant 
of the finances, bowing. 

“Yes, by oppressing the people,” said the queen. 

“ And were they not oppressed, madame,” replied Fouquet, “‘ when they 
were made to sweat the forty millions given by this deed? Furthermore, his 
majesty has asked my opinion,—I have given it; if his majesty asks my 
concurrence, it will be the same.” 

“Nonsense ! accept, my son, accept,” said Anne of Austria. “ You are 
above reports and interpretations.” 

‘Refuse, sire,” said Fouquet. “As long as aking lives, he has no other 
measure but his conscience—no other judge but his own desires ; but when 
dead, he has posterity, which applauds or accuses.” 

“ Thank you, mother,” replied Louis, bowing respectfully to the queen. 
“ Thank you, Monsieur Fouquet,” said he, dismissing the surintendant 
civilly. 

“Do you accept >” asked Anne of Austria, once more. 
“TI will consider of it,” replied he, looking at Fouquet. 


wares = > 


a 


210 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 
AGONY 


THE day after the deed of donation had been sent to the king, the carding 
caused himself to be transported to Vincennes. The king and the cou 
followed him thither. The last flashes of this torch still cast splendou 


as Guénaud had predicted, had become worse ; it was no longer an attac 
of gout, it was an attack of death: then there was another thing whic 
made that agony more agonizing still,—and that wasthe agitation introduce 
into his mind by the donation he had sent to the king, and, which, ac 
cording to Colbert, the king ought to send back not accepted to th 
cardinal. The cardinal had, as we have said, great faith in 
dictions of his secretary ; but the sum was a large one, 
might be the genius of Colbert, from time to time the cardinal thought t 
himself that the Theatin also might possibly have been mistaken, and t 
there was at least as much chance of his not being damned, as there w 
that Louis XIV. would send him back his millions. Besides. the longe 
the donation was in coming back, the more Mazarin thought that fort 
millions were worth a little risk, particularly of so hypothetic a thing as th 
soul. Mazarin, in his character of cardinal and prime minister, was almost 
an atheist, and quite a materialist. Every time that the door opened, he 
turned sharply round towards that door, expecting to see the return of his 
unfortunate donation ; then, deceived in his hope, he threw himself down 
again in his bed with a sigh, and found his pains so much the greater for 
having forgotten them for an instant. . Anne of Austria had also followed 
the cardinal ; her heart, though age had made it selfish, could not help 
evincing towards the dying man a sorrow which she owed him as a wife, 
according to some ; and as a sovereign, according to others. She had, in 
some sort, put on mourning in her countenance beforehand, and all the 
court wore it as she did. Louis, in order not to show on his face what 
Was passing at the bottom of his heart, persisted in remaining in his own 
apartments, where his nurse alone kept him company ; the more he 
reckoned upon the approach of the time when all constraint would be at 
an end, the more humble and patient he was, falling back upon himself, 
as all strong men do when they form great designs, in order to gain more 
Spring at the decisive moment. Extreme unction had been administered 
to the cardinal, who, faithful to his habits of dissinulation, struggled 
against appearances, and even against reality, receiving company in his 
bed, as if only afflicted with a temporary complaint. Guénaud, on his part, 
preserved profound secrecy ; fatigued with visits and questions, he an- 
swered nothing but “his eminence is still full of youth and strength, but 
God wills that which he wills, and when he has decided that man is to be 
laid low, he will be laidlow.” These words, which he scattered with a sort 
of discretion, reserve, and preference, were commented upon earnestly by 
two persons,—the king and the cardinal. Mazarin, notwithstanding the 
prophecy of Guénaud, still lured himself, or rather, so well played his part, | 
that the most cunning, when saying he lured himself, proved that 
they were his dupes. Louis, absent from the cardinal two days ; Louis, 
with his eyes fixed upon that same donation which so constantly pre- 
occupied the cardinal; Louis did not exactly know how to make out 


} 


AGONY. 211 


azarin’s conduct. ‘The son of Louis XIII., following the paternal tradi- 
ions, had, to that time been so little of a king that, whilst ardently desiring 
royalty, he desired it with that terror which always accompanies the un- 
known. Thus, having formed his resolution, which, besides, he communi- 
cated to nobody, he determined to have an interview with Mazarin. It 
was Anne of Austria, who, constant in her attendance upon the cardinal, 
first heard this proposition of the king’s, and who transmitted it to the 
dying man, whom it greatly agitated. For what purpose could Louis wish 
or an interview? Was it to return the deed, as Colbert had said he would? - 
‘as it to keep it, after thanking him, as Mazarin thought he would? 
evertheless, as the dying man felt that the uncertainty increased his tor- 
ents, he did not hesitate an instant. 
“His majesty will be welcome,—yes, very welcome,” cried he, making 
Colbert, who was seated at the foot of the bed, a sign which the latter 
omprehended perfectly. “ Madame,” continued Mazarin, “will your 
majesty be good enough to assure the king yourself of the truth of what 
I have just said ?” 
Anne of Austria rose ; she herself was anxious to have the question of 
e forty millions settled—the question which seemed to lie heavy on the 
ind of everybody. Anne of Austria went out; Mazarin made a great 
‘ffort, and, raising himself up towards Colbert : “Well, Colbert,” said he, 
‘two days have passed away—two mortal days—and, you see, nothing is 
come back from yonder.” 

“ Patience, monseigneur,” said Colbert. 

“ Art thou mad, thou wretch ? Thou advisest me to have patience! Oh, 
in sad truth, Colbert, thou art laughing at me. I am dying, and thou callest 
out to me to wait !” 

“‘ Monseigneur,” said Colbert, with his habitual coolness, “it is impossible 
that things should not fall out as I have said. His majesty is coming to 
see you, and, no doubt, he brings back the deed himself.” 

“Do you think so? Well, I, on the contrary, am sure that his majesty is 
coming to thank me.” 

At this moment Anne of Austria returned. On her way to the apart- 
ments of her son, she had met with a new empiric. This concerned a 
powder which, it was said, had power to save the cardinal; and she 
brought a portion of this powder with her. But this was not what 
Mazarin expected ; therefore he would not even look at it, declaring 
that life was not worth the pains that were taken to preserve it. But, 
whilst professing this philosophical axiom, his long-confined secret escaped 
him at last. 

“ That, madame,” said he, “that is not the interesting part of my situa- 
tion. I made the king, now two days ago, a little donation ; up to this 
time, from delicacy, no doubt, his majesty has not condescended to say 
anything about it ; but the time for explanation is come, and I implore 
your majesty to tell me if the king has made up his mind on that matter.” 

Anne of Austria was about to reply, when Mazarin stopped her. 

“The truth, madame,” said he—“in the name of Heaven, the truth! 

Do not flatter a dying man with a hope that may prove vain.” There he 
stopped, a look from Colbert telling him that he was on a_ wrong 
tack. 
“T know,” said Anne of Austria, taking the cardinal’s hand, “I know 
that you have generously made, not a little donation, as you with so much 
‘modesty call it, but a magnificent gift. I know how painful it would be 
9 you if the king——” 


rn 


T A— 
Pee wf 


212 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


Mazarin listened, dying as he was, as ten living men could not hav 
listened. 

“ That the king——’” replied he. 

“ That the king,” continued Anne of Austria, “should not freely accep 
what you offer so nobly.” 

Mazarin allowed himself to sink back upon his pillow like Pantaloon 
that is to say, with all the despair of a man who yields to the tempest 
but he still preserved sufficient strength and presence of mind to cast upo 
Colbert one of those looks which are well worth a hundred sonnets, whic 
is to say, ten long poems. 

‘Should you not,” added the queen, “have considered the refusal of th 
king as a sort ofinsult ?” Mazarin rolled his head about upon his pilloy 
without articulating a syllable. The queen was deceived, or feigned to b 
deceived, by this demonstration. 

‘“‘ Therefore,” resumed she, “ I have circumvented him with good cou 
sels ; and as certain minds, jealous, no doubt, of the glory you are abou 
to acquire by this generosity, have endeavoured to prove to the king tha 
he ought not to accept of this donation, I have struggled in your favou 
and so well have I struggled, that you will not have, I hope, that disagre 
able to undergo.” 

“Ah !” murmured Mazarin, with languishing eyes, “ah! that is a s 
vice I shall never forget for a single minute during the few hours I ha 
to live.” 

“T must admit,” continued the queen, “ that it was not without trouble®™ 
rendered it to your eminence.” 

Ah, deste / I believe that. Oh! oh!” 

“ Good God! what is the matter?” 

“T am burning !” 

“Do you suffer much ?” 

“‘ As much as one of the damned.” 

Colbert would have wished to have sunk through the flooring. 

“So, then,” resumed Mazarin, “ your majesty thinks that the king . 
he stopped several seconds—“ that the king is coming here to offer me 
some small thanks ?” 


, fu think so,” said the queen. Mazarin annihilated Colbert with his last 
ook. 

At that moment the ushers announced that the king was in the ante- 
chambers, which were filled with people. This announcement produced 
a stir of which Colbert took advantage to escape bythe door of the ruedle. 
Anne of Austria rose, and awaited her son, standing. Louis XIV. ap- 
peared at the threshold of the door, with his eyes fixed upon the dying 
man, who did not even think it worth while to notice that majesty from 
which he thought he had nothing more to expect. An usher placed a 
-fauteucl close to the bed. Louis bowed to his mother, then to the car- 
dinal, and sat down. The queen took aseat in her turn. Then, as the king 
had looked behind him, the usher understood that look, and made a sign 
to the courtiers who filled up the doorway to be gone, which they in- 
stantly complied with. Silence fell upon the chamber with the velvet 
curtains. The king, still very young, and very timid in the presence 
ef him who had been his master from his birth, still respected him much, 
particularly now, surrounded with the supreme majesty of death. -He di! - 
not dare, therefore, to commence the conversation, feeling that every wor, 
must have its bearing, not only upon things of this world, but of the nex’ 
Asto the cardinal, at that moment he had but one thaught—his Te 


{ 
} 


AGONY, 213 


t was not physical pain which gave him that air of despondency, and that 
fugubrious look ; it was the expectation of the thanks that were about to 
ssue from the king’s mouth, and cut off all hope of restitution. Mazarin was 
{the first to break the silence. “Is your majesty come to make any stay at 
(Vincennes ?” said he. 

A. Louis made an affirmative sign with his head. 

“ That is a gracious favour,” continued Mazarin, “granted to a dying man, 
nd which will render death more mild to him.” 

“TI hope,” replied the king, “I am come to visit, not a dying man, but 
sick man susceptible cf cure.” Mazarin replied by a movement of the 
ead. 

“Your majesty is very kind ; but I know more than you on that subject. 
he last visit, sire,” said he, ‘“ the last visit.” 

“Tf it were so, monsieur le cardinal,” said Louis, “I would come a last 
ime to ask the counsels of a guide to whom I owe everything.” 

Anne of Austria was a woman, she could not restrain her tears. Louis 
showed himself much affected, and Mazarin still more than his two guests, 
ut from very different motives. Here the silence returned, The queen wiped 
r eyes, and the king resumed his firmness. 

Twas saying,” continued the king, “that I owed much to your eminence.” 
ethe eyes of the cardinal devoured the king, for he felt the great moment 

‘as come. “And,” continued Louis, “the principal object of my visit 
tas to offer you very sincere thanks for the last evidence of friendship you 
nave kindly sent me.” 

The cheeks of the cardinal sunk in, his lips partially opened, and the 
most lamentable sigh he had ever uttered was about to issue from his 
chest. : 

“ Sire,” said he, “I may have despoiled my poor family ; I may have 
ruined all that belong to me, which may be imputed to me as an error; 
but, at least, it shall not be said of me that I have refused to sacrifice 
everything to my king.” 

Anne of Austria’s tears flowed afresh. 

“My dear Monsieur Mazarin,” said the king, in a more serious tone 
than might have been expected from his youth, “ you have misunderstood 
me, apparently.” 

Mazarin raised himself upon his elbow. 

_“T have no purpose to despoil your dear family, nor to ruin your servants. 
Oh, no, that shall never be !” 

“ Humph !” thought Mazarin, “he is going to restore me some bribe ; let 
us get the largest piece out of the trap we can.” 

“The king is going to be foolishly affected, and play the generous,” 
thought the queen ; “he must not be allowed to impoverish himself ; such 
an opportunity for gaining a fortune will never occur again.” 

“ Sire,” said the cardinal aloud, “my family is very numerous, and my 
nieces will be destitute when I am gone.” 

““Oh !” interrupted the queen, eagerly, “have no uneasiness with re- 
spect to your family, dear Monsieur Mazarin ; we have no friends dearer 
than your friends ; your nieces shall be my children, the sisters of his 
majesty; and if a favour be distributed in France, it shall be to those 

ou love.” . 

“Smoke!” thought Mazarin, who knew better than any one the faith that 
in} be put in the promises of kings. Louis read the dying man’s thought 


] 


n his face. 
4.“ Be comforted, my dear Monsieur Mazarin,” said he, with a half smile, 


214 - THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


sad beneath its irony ; “the Mesdemoiselles de Mancini will lose, when 
losing you, their most precious good ; but they shall none the less be the 
richest heiresses of France ; and since you have been kind enough to give 
me their dowry ”—the cardinal was panting—“I restore it to them,” con- 
tinued Louis, drawing from his breast, and holding towards the cardinal’s 
bed the parchment which contained the donation that, during two days, 
had kept alive such tempests in the mind of Mazarin. 

“What did I tell you, monseigneur ?’? murmured in the rzelle a voice, 
which passed away like a breath. 

“Your majesty returns me my donation !” cried Mazarin, so disturbe 
by joy as to forget his character of a benefactor. 

“Your majesty rejects the forty millions!” cried Anne of Austria, s 
stupefied as to forget her character of an afflicted wife, or queen. 

“Yes, monsieur le cardinal ; yes, madame,” replied Louis X1V., tearin 
the parchment which Mazarin had not yet ventured to clutch; “yes, I 
annihilate this deed which despoiled a whole family. The wealth acquired 
by his eminence in my service is his own wealth and not mine.” 

“‘ But, sire, does your majesty reflect,” said Anne of Austria, “that yo 
have not ten thousand crowns in your coffers ?” 

_ “Madame, I have just performed my first royal action, and I hope 
will worthily inaugurate my reign.” 

“Ah ! sire, you are right !” cried Mazarin ; “ that is truly great—that i 
truly generous which you have just done.” And he looked, one after th 
other, at the pieces of the act spread over his bed, to assure himself that 
it was the original and not acopy that had been torn. At length his eyes 
fell upon the fragment which bore his signature, and, recognising it, he 
sunk back swooning on his bolster. Anne of Austria, without strength to 
conceal her regret, raised her hands and eyes towards heaven. 

“Oh! sire,” cried Mazarin, “be you blessed! My God! May you be 
beloved by all my family! Per Baccho / if ever any discontent comes to 
you on the part of those belonging to me, sire, only frown, and I will rise 
from my tomb !” 

This pantalonnade did not produce all the effect Mazarin had reckoned 
upon. Louis had already passed to considerations of a more elevated 
nature, and as to Anne of Austria, unable to support, without abandoning 
herself to the anger she felt burning within her, the magnanimity of her 
son and the hypocrisy of the cardinal, she arose and left the chamber, 
heedless of thus betraying the extent of her grief. Mazarin saw all this, 
and fearing that Louis XIV. might repent of his decision, he began, in 
order to draw attention another way, to cry out, as, at a later period, 
Scapin was to cry out, in that sublime piece of pleasantry which the morose 
and grumbling Boileau dared to reproach Moliére with. His cries, how- 
ever, by degrees, became fainter, and when Anne of Austria left the apart- 
ment, they ceased altogether. 

“ Monsieur le cardinal,” said the king, “ have you any recommendations 
to make to me ?” 

“Sire,” replied Mazarin, “you are already wisdom itself, prudence per- 
sonified ; of your generosity I will not venture to speak ; that which you 
have just done exceeds all that the most generous men of antiquity or ot 
modern times have ever done.” The king received this praise coldly. 

“So you confine yourself, monsieur,” said he, “to your thanks—ar 
your experience, much more extensive than my wisdom, my prudence, 
my generosity, does not furnish me with a single piece of friendly adv 
to guide my future.” Mazarin reflected fora moment. “You have ji 
done much for me, sire.” said he, “ that is, for mine.” 


e 


AGONY. 215 


“Say no more about that,” said the king. 

Well !” continued Mazarin, “I will return you something in exchange 
or these forty millions you have given up so royally.” 
|, Louis XIV., by a movement, indicated that these flatteries were un- 
leasing to him. “TI will give you a piece of advice,” continued Mazarin ; 
yes, a piece of advice—advice more precious than the forty millions.” 

‘“‘ Monsieur le cardinal !” interrupted Louis., 

“ Sire, listen to this advice.” 

‘ I am listening.” 

“Come nearer, sire, for I am weak !—nearer, sire, nearer !” 

The king bent over the dying man. “Sire,” said Mazarin, in so lowa 
ne that the breath of his words arrived only like a recommendation from 

e tomb in the attentive ears of the kine—“ Sire, never have a prime 
inister.” 
Louis drew back astonished. The advice was a confession—a treasure, 
fact, was that sincere confession of Mazarin. The legacy of the cardinal 
v the young king was composed of six words only, but those six words, 
is Mazarin had said, were worth forty millions. Louis remained for an 
tant confounded. As for Mazarin, he appeared only to have said 
mething quite natural. A little scratching was heard along the curtains 
the rwed/e. Mazarin understood : “ Yes, yes !” cried he warmly, “ yes, 
sire, I recommend you a wise man, an honest man, and a clever man.” 

“Tell me his name, monsieur le cardinal. 

“His name is yet almost unknown, sire ; it is M. Colbert, my intendant. 
Oh ! try him,” added Mazarin, in an earnest voice ; “all that he has pre- 
dicted has come to pass ; he has a safe glance, he is never mistaken either 
in things or in men—which is more surprising still. Sire, I owe you much 
but I think I acquit myself of all towards you in giving you M. Colbeit.’ 

“So be it,” said Louis, faintly, for, as Mazarin had said, the name of 
Colbert was quite unknown to him, and he thought the enthusiasm of the 
cardinal partook of the delirium of a'dying man. The cardinal sunk 
back on his pillow. 

“For the present, adieu, sire; adieu!” murmured Mazarin. “I am 
tired, and I have yet a rough journey to perform before I present myself 
to my new master.—Adieu, sire !” 

The young king felt the tears rise to his eyes ; he bent over the dying 
man, already half a corpse, and then precipitately retired. 


‘ 


CHAPTER XLIX. 
THE FIRST APPEARANCE OF COLBERT. 


THE whole night was passed in anguish, common to the dying man and 
the king ; the dying man expected his deliverance, the king expected his 
liberty. Louis did not go to bed. An hour after leaving the chamber of, 
the cardinal, he learnt that the dying man, recovering a little strength, 
had insisted upon being dressed, farded and painted, and seeing the 
ambassadors. Like Augustus, he no doubt considered the world to be a 
great theatre, and was desirous of playing out the last act of the comedy. 
Anne of Austria reappeared no more in the cardinal’s apartments ; she 
ha nothing more to dothere. Propriety was the pretext for her absence. 

his part, the cardinal did not ask for her ; the advice the queen had 
f en her son rankled in his heart. Towards midnight, still* painted, 
2 azarin’s mortal agony came on. He had revised his testament. and as 


216° THE VICOMTE DE BRACELONA/. 
| 
this testament was the exact expression of his will, and as he feared that! 
some interested influence might take advantage of his weakness to make } 
him change something in that testament, he had given orders to Colbert. - 
who walked up and down the corridor which led to the cardinal’s bed |- 
chamber, like the most vigilant of sentinels. The king, shut up in his owns 
apartment, despatched his nurse every hour to Mazarin’s chamber, with, 
orders to bring him back the exact bulletin of the cardinal’s state. After. 
having heard that Mazarin was dressed, painted, and had seen the, 
ambassadors, Louis heard that prayers for the dying were commenced for 
the cardinal. At one o’clock in the morning, Guénaud had administered 
the last remedy. ‘This was a relic of the old customs of that fencing time, 
which was about to disappear to give place to another time, to believe that 
death could be kept off by some good secret thrust. Mazarin, after having 
taken the remedy, respired freely for nearly ten minutes. He immediately 
gave orders that the news should be spread everywhere of a fortunate 
crisis. The king, on learning this, felt as if a cold sweat were passing 
over his brow;—he had had a glimpse of the light of liberty ; slavery 
appeared to him more dark and less acceptable than ever. But the bulletin 
which followed entirely changed the face of things. Mazarin could n 
longer breathe at all, and could scarcely follow the prayers which the cur 
of Saint-Nicholas-des-Champs recited near him. The king resumed. 
his agitated walk about his chamber, and consulted, as he walked 
several papers d awn from a casket of which he alone had the key. A 
third time the nurse returned. M. de Mazarin had just uttered a joke, and 
had ordered his “ Flora,” by Titian, to be revarnished. At length, towards 
two o’clock in the morning, the king could no longer resist his weariness : 
he had not slept for twenty-four hours. Sleep, so powerful at his age, 
overcame him for about an hour. But he did not go to bed for that hour; 
he slept in a fawdeuz/. About four o’clock his nurse awoke him by entering 
the room. “ Well?” asked the king. 

“Well, my dear sire,” said the nurse, clasping her hands with an air of 
commiseration. “Well; he is dead !” 

The king arose at a bound, as if a steel spring had been applied to 
his legs. ‘* Dead !” cried he. 

pias | yes.” 

“Ts it quite certain ?” 

“ Official >” waves.” 

“Has the news of it been made public ?” 

“ Not yet.” 

“Who told you, then, that the cardinal was dead ?” 

*M. Colbert.” 

NLColbert Yes: 

‘And was he sure of what he said ?” 

“He came out of the chamber, and had held a glass for some minutes 
before the cardinal’s lips.” 

“Ah !” said the king. ‘And what has become of M. Colbert 2” 

“He has just left the chamber of his eminence.” 

“To go whither ” 

“To follow me.” 

So that he is——” | 

“There, my dear sire, waiting at your door, till it shall be your good — 
pleasure to receive him.” 

Louis ran to the door, opened it himself, and perceived in the passage — 
CoJbert standing waiting. The king started at the sight of this statue, all 


66 Yes.” 


LHE FIRST APPEARANCE OF COLBEKT. 217 


clothed in black. Colbert, bowing with profound respect, advanced two 
| steps towards his majesty. Louis re-entered his chamber, making Colbert 
a sign to follow him. Colbert entered ; Louis dismissed the nurse, who 
closed the door as she went out. Colbert remained modestly standing 
, near that door. 
“What do you come to announce to me, monsieur ?” said Louis, very 
/much troubled at being thus surprised in his private thoughts, which he 
' could not completely conceal. 

“That monsieur le cardinal has just expired, sire ; and that I bring your 
majesty his last adieu.” 

__ The king remained pensive for a minute ; and during that minute he 
‘looked attentively at Colbert ;—it was evident that the cardinal’s last 
_words were in his mind. “Are you, then, M. Colbert?” asked he. 

MY eS, Sire,” 

| “The faithful servant of his eminence, as his eminence himself told 
| me ?” 

“Yes, sire.” 

“The depositary of part of his secrets ?” 

“ Of all of them.” 

“The friends and servants of his defunct eminence will be dear to me, 
monsieur, and I shall take care that you are placed in my offices.” 

Colbert bowed. 

“You are a financier, monsieur, I believe ?” 

es. aire 

** And did monsieur le cardinal employ you in his stewardship ?” 

“1 had that honour, sire.” 

“You never did anything personally for my household, I believe ?” 

* Pardon me, sire, it was I who had the honour of giving monsieur le 
cardinal the idea of an economy which puts three hundred thousand francs 
a year into your majesty’s coffers.” 

“What economy was that, monsieur?” asked Louis XIV. 

“Your majesty knows that the hundred Swiss have silver lace on each 
side of their ribbons ?” 

“ Doubtless.” 

“Well, sire, it was I who proposed that false silver lace should be 
placed upon these ribbons ; it could not be seen, and a hundred thousand 
crowns serve to feed a regiment during six months ; or is the price of ten 
thousand good muskets ; or is the value of a vessel of ten guns, ready 
‘or sea,” 

“ That is true,” said Louis XIV., considering the personage more atten- 
tively, “and ma for! there is an economy well placed; besides it was 
ridiculous for soldiers to wear the same lace as noblemen wear.” 

““T am happy to be approved of by your majesty.” 

“Ts that the only appointment you held about the cardinal ?” asked the 
king. 

“ It was I who was appointed to examine the accounts of the surinten- 
dant, sire.” 

“Ah!” said Louis, who was about to dismiss Colbert, but whom that 
word stopped ; “Ah! it was you whom his eminence had charged to con- 
trol M. Fouquet, was it? And the result of the examination ?” 

“Is that there is a deficit, sire; but if your majesty will permit 
mena” 

“ Speak M. Colbert.” 

“T ought to give your majesty some explanations.” 


218 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


- “Not at all, monsieur, it is you who have controlled these account: 
give me the result.” 
“That is very easily done, sire : empty everywhere, money nowhere.’ 

“ Beware, monsieur, you are roughly attacking the administration of 1 
Fouquet, who, nevertheless, I have heard say, is an able man.” 

Colbert coloured, and then became pale, for he felt from that minute i 
entered upon a struggle with a man whose power almost equalled ° 
power of him who had just died. “Yes, sire, a very able man,” repeat 
Colbert, bowing. : een 

“But if M. Fouquet is an able man, and, in spite of that ability, if mon - 
be wanting, whose fault is it >” 

‘qT donot accuse, sire, | verify.” 

“ That is well; make out your accounts, and present them to me. The 
is a deficit, do you say? A deficit may be temporary ; credit returns a 
funds are restored.” 

“No, sire.” 

“Upon this year, perhaps, 1 understand that ; but upon next year ?” 

“ Next year is eaten as bare as the current year.” it 
/**But, the year after, then ?” } 4 

"Like next year.” } 

“What do you tell me, Monsieur Colbert ?” ; 

“T say there are four years engaged beforehand.” 3 

“They must have a loan, then.” ; 

i hey must have. three, sire,” 

“I will create offices to make them resign, and the money of the posts 
shall be paid into the treasury.” : ; 

“Impossible, sire, for there have already been creations upon creations 
of offices, the provisions of which are given in blank, so that the pur- 
chasers enjoy them without filling them. That is why your majesty cannot 
make them resign. Further, upon each agreement M. Fouquet has made 
an abatement of a third, so that the people have been plundered, without 
your majesty profiting by it. Let your majesty set down clearly your 
thought, and tell me what you wish me to explain.” 4 

“You are right, clearness is what you wish, is it not?” 
ee sire, clearness. God is God above all things, because He made 
* Well, for example,” resumed Louis XIV., “if to-day, the cardinal 
being dead, and I being king, I wanted money ” 

“Your majesty would not have any.” 

“Oh! that is strange, monsieur! How! my surintendant would not 
find me any money ?” 

Colbert shook his large head. 

_ “How is that ?” said the king ; “are the revenues of the state so much 
in debt that there are no longer any revenues ?” 

" Yes, sire, to that extent,” 

_ The king started. “Explain me that, M. Colbert,” added he, with a 
frown. “If it be so, I will get together the ordonnances to obtain from the 
holders a discharge, a liquidation, at a cheap rate.” 

“Impossible, for the ordonnances have been converted into bills, which 
bills, for the convenience of return and facility of transaction, are divided 
into so many parts, that the originals can no longer be repacniced? 

Louis, very much agitated, walked about, still frowning. ae But, if this 
o28 as you say, Monsieur Colbert,” said he, stopping allat once, “ I should 

e ruined before I begin to reign,” 


THE FIRST APPEARANCE OF COLBERT. 219” 


* You are, in fact, sire,” said the impassible ca.:_r-up of figures, 

“Well, but yet, monsieur, the money is somewhere ?” 

“Yes, sire, and even as a beginning, I bring your majesty a note of funds 

which M. le Cardinal Mazarin was not willing to set down in his testament 

neither in any act whatever, but which he confided to me.” ‘ 
 Covyou?? 

Yes, sire, with an injunction to remit it to your majesty.” 

‘What ! besides the forty millions of the testament.” 

«Yes; sire,” 

‘“M. de Mazarin had still other funds ?”?— Colbert bowed. 

“Why, that man was a gulf!” murmured the king. - “ M. de Mazarin on 
one side, M. Fouquet on the other,—more than a hundred millions, per- 
haps, between them! No wonder my coffers should be empty !” 

Colbert waited without stirring. 

“And is the sum you bring me worth the trouble ?” asked the king. 

“Yes, sire, it is a round sum.” 

** Amounting to how much ?? 

“To thirteen millions of livres, sire.” 

“Thirteen millions !” cried Louis, trembling with joy ; “do you say 
‘thirteen millions, Monsieur Colbert ?” 

“T said thirteen millions, yes, your majesty.” 

“ Of which everybody is ignorant ?” 

“Of which everybody is ignorant.” 

“Which are in your hands ?” 

“In my hands, yes, sire.” 

“ And which I can have ?” 

* Within two hours, sire.” 

* But where are they, then ?” 

“In the cellar of a house which the cardinal possessed in the city, 
and which he was so kind as to leave to me by a particular clause of his 
will.” 

“You are acquainted with the cardinal’s will, then ?” 

“T have a duplicate of it, signed by his hand.”——“ A duplicate ?” 

“Yes, sire, and here it is.” Colbert drew the deed quietly from his 
pocket, and showed it to the king. The king read the article relative to the 
donation of the house. k 

“But,” said he, “there is no question here but of the house, there is 
nothing said of the money.” 

“Your pardon, sire, it is in my conscience.” 

* And Monsieur Mazarin has intrusted it to you ?” 

“Why not, sire ?” 

“He! aman mistrustful of everybody ?” 

“tHe was not so of me, sire, as your majesty may perceive.” 

Louis fixed his eyes with admiration upon that vulgar but expressive face. 

You are an honest man, M. Colbert,” said the king. 

“That is not a virtue, it is a duty,” replied Colbert, coolly. 

“ But,” added Louis, ‘does not the money belong to the family ?” 

' “Tf this money belonged to the family, it would be disposed of in the 
testament, as the rest of his fortune is. iif this money belonged to the 
family, I, who drew up the deed of donation in favour of your majesty, 
should have added the sum of thirteen millions to that of forty millions 
which was offered to you.” 

“How !” exclaimed Louis XIV., “was it you who drew up the deed of 

donation ?” 


220 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


PAV es, Sivei!! ie 

“ And yet the cardinal loved you?” added the king, ingenuously. 

“T had assured his eminence you would by no means accept the gift,” 
said Colbert, in that same quiet manner we have described, and which, 
even in the common habits of life, had something solemn in it. Louis 
- passed his hand over his brow. “Oh! how young I am,” murmured he, 
to have the command of men.” 

Colbert waited the end of this interior monologue. He saw Louis raise 
his head. “At what hour shall I send the money to your majesty ?” asked 
ne. 

“‘To-night, at eleven o’clock ; I desire that no one may know that I pos- 
sess this money.” 
Colbert made no more reply than if the thing had not been said to 
him, 

“Ts the amount in ingots, or coined gold ?” 

“In coined gold, sire.” 

“That is well.” 

*¢ Where shall I send it to ?” | 

“To the Louvre. Thank you, M. Colbert.” yl 

Colbert bowed and retired. “ Thirteen millions !” exclaimed Louis, as°* 
soon as he was alone. “This must be a dream!” Then he allowed his 
head to sink between his hands, as if he were really asleep. But, at the 
end of a moment, he arose, and opening the window violently, he bathed 
his burning brow in the keen morning air, which brought to his senses 
the scent of the trees, and the perfume of flowers. A splendid dawn 
was rising in the horizon, and the first rays of the sun inundated with 
flame the brow of the young king. “This dawn is that of my reign,” 
murmured Louis XIV. “Is it a presage that you send me, all-powerful 
God ?” | 


CHAPTER As, 
THE FIRST DAY OF THE ROYALTY OF LOUIS XIV. 


IN the morning, the news of the death of the cardinal was spread through 
the castle, and thence speedily reached the city. The ministers Fouquet, 
Lyonne, and Letellier entered /a@ salle des séances, to hold a council. The 
king sent for them immediately. ‘ Messieurs,” said he, “as long as mon- 
sieur le cardinal lived, I allowed him to govern my affairs ; but now, I 
mean to govern them myself. You will give me your advice when I shall 
ask it. You may go.” 

The ministers looked at each other with surprise. If they concealed a 
smile, it was with a great effort, for they knew that the prince, brought up 
in absolute ignorance of business, by this took upon himself a burden 
much too heavy for his strength. Fouquet took leave of his colleagues 
upon the stairs, saying :—“ Messieurs! there will be so much the less 
labour for us.” 

And he got gaily into his carriage. The others, a little uneasy at the 
turn things had taken, went back to Paris together. Towards ten o’clock, 
the king repaired to the apartment of his mother, with whom he had a long 
and perfectly private conversation. After dinner, he got into his carriage 
and went straight to the Louvre. There he received much company, and 
took a degree of pleasure in remarking the hesitation of all, and the 

curiosity of each. Towards evening, he ordered the doors of the Louvre 


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‘(THE MONEY IS IN YOUR MAJESTY’S CELLAR.” 


LEE. FIRST DAY OF THE ROYALTY OF LOUIS XIV. 221 


to be closed, with the exception of one only, that which opened to the 
quay. He placed on duty at this point two hundred Swiss, who did not 
speak a word of French, with orders to admit all who carried packages, 
but no others ; and by no means to allow any one to go out. At eleven 
o’clock precisely, he heard the rolling of a heavy carriage under the arch, 
then of another, then of a third: after which the gate grated upon its 
hinges to be closed. Soon after, somebody scratched with their nail at 
the door of the cabinet. The king opened it himself, and beheld Colbert, 
whose first word was this :—“ The money is in your majesty’s cellar.” 

The king then descended and went himself to see the barrels of specie, 
in gold and silv er, which, under the direction of Colbert, four men had 
just rolled into a cellar of which the king had given Colbert the key in the 
morning. This review completed, Louis returned to his apartments, fol- 
lowed by Colbert, who had not warmed his immovable coldness with one 
ray of personal satisfaction. 

“Monsieur,” said the king, “ what do you wish that I should give you as 
a recompense for this dev otedness and probity ?” 

S » Absolutely nothing, sire.’ 

“ How! nothing? Not even an opportunity of serving me?” 

“Tf your majesty were not to furnish me with that opportunity, I should 

- not the less serve you. It is impossible for me not to be the best servant 
of the king.” 

“You shall be intendant of the finances, M. Colbert.” 

\, “But there is already a surintendant, sire.’ 
\ “T know that.” 

“Sire, the surintendant of the finances is the most powerful man in th 
kingdom.” 

“Ah !” cried Louis, colouring, “do you think so ?” 

“He will crush me in a week, sire. Your majesty gives me a contrél 
‘for which strength is indispensable. An intendant under a surintendant— 
that\is inferiority.” 

ou want support—you do not reckon upon me?” 

““T had the honour of telling your majesty that during the lifetime o 
_M. de Mazarin, M. Fouquet was the second man in the kingdom ; nov 
M. de Mazarin is dead, M. Fouquet is become the first.” 

“Monsieur, I agree to what you told me of all things, up to to-day, 
to-morrow, please 1 to remember, I shall no longer suffer it.” 

“Then I shall be of no use to your majesty: ” 

“You are already, since you fear to compromise yourself in servin 
me.” 

“T only fear to be placed so that I cannot serve your majesty.” 

‘What do you wish then ?” 

“IT wish your majesty to allow me assistance in the labours of the offic 
of intendant.” 

“The post would lose in value.” 

“ It would gain in security.” 

“ Choose your colleagues.” 

“ Messrs. Breteuil, Marin, Harvard.” 

“To-morrow the ordounaxce shall appear.” ) 

“Sire, I thank you.” 

“Is that all you ask ?” 

““ No, sire, one thing more.” 

“What is that 

| “ Allow me to compose a chamber of justice.” 


Y 


222 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“ What would this chamber of justice do ?” 
“‘ Try the farmers-general and contractors, who, during ten years, have 
eculated.” 
“ Well, but what would you do with them ?” 
‘“‘ Hang two or three, and that would make the rest disgorge.” 
“T cannot commence my reign with executions, M. Colbert.” 
“On the contrary, sire, in order not to end with them.” 
The king made no reply. “ Does your majesty consent ?” said Colbert. 
‘J will reflect upon it, monsieur.” 
“Tt will be too late, when reflection may be made.” 
Why ?” 
“Because we have to deal with people stronger than ourselves, if they 
are warned.” 
“ Compose that chamber of justice, monsieur.” 
“ T will, sire.” : 
“Ts that all?” 
“No, sire; there is still an important affair. What rights does your 
majesty attach to this office of intendant ?” 
“ Well—I do not know—the customary ones.” : 
“ Sire, I require that to this office be devolved the right of reading the) 
correspondence with England.” 
“Impossible, monsieur, for that correspondence is kept from the coun- 
cil ; monsieur le cardinal himself carried it on.” 
)/ “JT thought your majesty had this morning declared that there should no 
longer be a council ?” 
“Ves, I said so.” 
“ Let your majesty then have the goodness to read all the letters your- 
self, particularly those from England ; I hold strongly to this article.” 
“Monsieur, you shall have that correspondence, and render me an 
account of it.” . 
“ Now, sire, what shall I do with respect to the finances ?” 
“* All which M. Fouquet has not done.” | 
“That is all I ask of your majesty. Thanks, sire, I depart at ease ;” 
and at these words he did depart. Louis watched that departure. Col- 
bert was not yet a hundred paces from the Louvre, when the king re 
~ bula courier from England. After having looked at and examine: 
ivelope, the king broke the seal precipitately, and found only a letter 
fr... Charles II. The following is what the English’ prince wrote. to his 
royal brother :— . 
“Your majesty must be rendered very uneasy by the illness of M. le 
Cardinal Mazarin ; but the excess of danger can only prove of service to 
you. The cardinal is given over by his physician. I thank you for the 
gracious reply you have made to my communication touching the Princess 
Henrietta, my sister, and, in a week, the Princess and her court will set 
out for Paris. It is gratifying to me to acknowledge the fraternal friend- 
ship you have evinced towards me, and to call you, more justly than ever, 
my brother. It is gratifying to me, above everything, to prove to your 
majesty how mtich I am interested in all that may please you. You are 
having Belle-Isle-en-Mer secretly fortified. That is wrong. We shall 
never be at war against each other. That measure does not make me un- 
easy, it makes me sad. You are spending useless millions there; tell 
your ministers so ; and be assured that I am well informed ; render me 
the same service, my brother, if occasion offers.” 


The king rang his bell violently, and his valet de chambre 3 


THE FIRST DAY OF THE ROYALTY OF LOUIS XIV. 223 


“Monsieur Colbert is just gone ; he cannot be far off. Let him be called 
back !” exclaimed he. The valet was about to execute the order, when the 
king stopped him. 

“No,” said he, “no; I see the whole scheme of that man. Belle-Isle 
belongs to M. Fouquet ; Belle-Isle is being fortified, that is a conspiracy 
on the part of M. Fouquet. The discovery of that conspiracy is the ruin 

of the surintendant, and that discovery is the result of the correspondence 
with England. Oh! but I cannot place all my dependence upon that man; 
he is but the head, I must have an arm!” Louis, all at once, uttered a 
joyful cry. “I had, “said he, 2 lieutenant of musketeers !” 

us Yes, sire—Monsieur D’ Artagnan.” 

"i FLé quitted the service for a time.” 

*Ves, sive. 

“Let him be found, and be here, to- orrow, at my /ever.” 

The valet de chambre bowed and went out. 

“Thirteen millions in my cellar,” said the king ; “Colbert bearing my 
purse, and D’Artagnan carrying my sword—I am king !” 


———} 


CHAPIERILL 
A PASSION. 


THE day of his arrival, on returning from the Palais Royal, Athos, as we 
have seen, went straight to his hotel in the Rue Saint-Honoré. He there 
found the Vicomte de Bragelonne waiting for him in his chamber, chatting 
with Grimaud. It was not an easy thing to talk with this old servant. 
Two men only possessed the secret, Athos and D’Artagnan. The first 
succeeded, because Grimaud sought to make him speak himself; D’Ar- 
tagnan, on the contrary, because he knew how to make Grimaud talk. 
Raoul was occupied in making him describe the voyage to England, and 
Grimaud had related it in all its details with a certain number ot gestures 
and eight words, neither more nor less. He had, at first, indicated, by an 
undulating movement of his hand, that his master and he had crossed the 
sea. “Upon some expedition ?” Raoul had asked. 

Grimaud, by bending down his head, had answered, “ Yes.” ° 

“ When monsieur le comte incurred much danger: ?” asked Raoul. 

“Neither too much, nor too little,’ was replied by a shrug of the 
shoulders. 

“But, still, what sort of danger ?” insisted Raoul. 

Grimaud pointed to the sword ; he pointed to the fire and to a musket 
hung up over the wall. 

* Monsieur le comte had an enemy there, then ?” cried Raoul. 

“ Monk,” replied Grimaud. 

“Tt is strange, ” continued Raoul “that monsieur le comte persists in 
considering me a novice, and not allowing me to partake the honour and 
danger of his rencounters.” 

Grimaud smiled. It was at this moment Athos came in. The host was 
lighting him up the stairs, and Grimaud, recognizing the step of his master, 
hastened to meet him, which cut short the conversation. But Raoul was 
launched into the sea of interrogatories, and did not stop. Taking both 
\hands of the comte, with warm, but respectful tenderness,— “ How is it, 
monsieur,” said he, “that you have set out upon a dangerous voyage, with: 
out bidding me adieu, without commanding the aid of my sword, of myself, 
who ought to be your support, now I have the strength ; cv me, whom 


224 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, — | 


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you have brought up like a man? Ah! monsieur, why would you sires 
me to the cruel trial of never seeing you again ?” 

“Who told you, Raoul,” said the « comte, placing his cloak and hat in the 

hands of Grimaud, who had unbuckled his sword, “ Wha told you se 
“my voyage was a dangerous one ?” 

“1,” said Grimaud. 

“And why did you do so ?” said Athos sternly. 

Grimaud was embarrassed ; Raoul came to his assistance, by answering 
for him. “It is natural, monsieur, that our good Grimaud should tell me 
the truth in what concerns you. By whom should you be loved and se 
ported, if not by me ?” 

Athos did not reply. He made a friendly motion to Grimaud, which 
sent him out of the room; he then seated himself in a fauteuil, whilst 
Raoul remained standing before him. 

“ But is it true,” continued Raoul, “ that your voyage was an expedition, 
and that steel and fire threatened you ?” 

“Say no more about that, vicomte,” said Athos mildly. “I set out 
hastily, it is true ; but the service of King Charles II. required a prompt) 
departure. As to your anxtety, I thank you for it, and I know that I cap 
depend upon you. You have not wanted for anything, vicomte, in m 
absence, have you ?” 

** No, monsieur, thank you.” . 

“T left orders with Blaisois to pay youa hundred pistoles, if you should 
stand in need of money.” 

“Monsieur, I have not seen Blaisois.” 

“You have been without money, then ?” 

“ Monsieur, I had thirty pistoles left from the sale of the horses I took 
in my last campaign, and M. le Prince had the kindness to make me win 
two hundred pistoles at his play-table, three months ago.” 

“Do you play? I don’t like that, Raoul.” 

“T never play, monsieur ; it was M. le Prince who ordered me to hold 
his cards at Chantilly—one night when a courier came to him from the 
king. I won, and M. le Prince commanded me to take the stakes.” 

“Ts that a practice in the household, Raoul?” asked Athos with a 
frown. 

‘““Yes, monsieur ; every week ; M. le Prince affords, upon one occasion 
or another, a similar advantage to one of his gentlemen. There-are fifty 
gentlemen in his highness’s household ; it was my turn that time.” 

“Very well! You went into Spain, then ?” 

“Yes, monsieur, I made a very delightful and interesting journey.” 

“You have been back a month, have you not ?” 

‘“¢' Yes, monsieur.” 

“ And in the course of that month ?” 

“Tn that month——” 

“What have you done ?” 

“‘ My duties, monsieur.” 

“Have you not been home to La Fére ?” 

Raoul coloured. Athos looked at him with a fixed but tranquil expression. 
“You would be wrong not to believe me,” said Raoul. “TI feel that I 
coloured, and in spite of myself. The question you did me the honour to 
ask me is of a nature to raise in me much emotion. I colour, then, because 
I am agitated—not because I meditate a falsehood.” 

Sf know, Raoul, that you never lie.” 

“No, monsieur. , 


A PASSION. 225 


“Besides, my young friend, you would be wrong; what I wanted to 
say=——" 

“TI know quite well, monsieur. You would ask me if I have not been 
to Blois ?” 

** Exactly so.” 
“T have not been there ; I have not even seen the person of whom you 
vould speak to me.” 

The voice of Raoul trembled as he pronounced these words. Athos, a 
overeign judge in all matters of delicacy, immediately added, “ Raoul, 
ou answer with a painful feeling ; you are unhappy.” 

“Very, monsieur; you have forbidden me to go to Blois, or to see 
Tademoiselle de la Vallitre again.” Here the young man stopped. That 
ear name, so delightful to pronounce, made his heart bleed, although so 
weet upon his lips. 

‘And I have acted correctly, Raoul,” Athos hastened to reply. “Iam 
either an unjust nor a barbarous father. I respect true love ; but I look 
orward for you for a future—an immense future. A new reign is about to 
reak upon us like a fresh dawn. War calls upon a young king full of 
ivalric spirit. What is wanting to assist this heroic ardour is a battalion 
young and free lieutenants who would rush to the fight with enthusiasm, 
id fall crying, ‘Vzve le Roz’ instead of ‘Adieu, my dear wife!’ You 
aes that, Raoul. However brutal my reasoning may appear to be, 

conjure you, then, to believe me, and to turn away your thoughts from 
those early days of youth in which you took up this habit of love—days 
of effeminate carelessness, which soften the heart and render it incapable 
of containing those strong, bitter draughts called glory and adversity. 

Therefore, Raoul, I repeat to you, you should see in my counsel only the 
desire of being useful to you, only the ambition of seeing you prosper. I 
believe you capable of becoming a remarkable man. March alone, and 
you will march better, and more quickly.” 

“You have commanded, monsieur,” replied Raoul, “and I obey.” 

“ Commanded !” cried Athos. “Is it thus you reply to me? I have 
commanded you! Oh! you distort my words as you misconceive my 
intentions. 1 did not command you—I requested you.” 

“No, monsieur, you have commanded,” said Raoul, persistently. “ Had 
you only requested me, your request is still more effective than your order. 
_ have not seen Mademoiselle de Ja Valliére again.” 

“ But you are unhappy! you are unhappy !” insisted Athos. 

Raoul made no reply. 

- “TJ find you pale ; I find you dull. The sentiment is strong, then: 
- “Tt is a passion,” replied Raoul. 

* No—a habit.” P 
_ “Monsieur, you know I have travelled much, that I have passed two 
years far from her. A habit would yield to an absence of two years, I 
believe ; whereas, on my return, I loved, not more—that was impossible— 
but as much. Mademoiselle de Ja Valli¢re is forme the mate above all 
others ; but you are for mea god upon earth—to you I sacrifice everything.” 

“You are wrong,” said Athos; “I have no longer any right over you. 
Age has emancipated you ; you no longer even stand in need of my con- 
sent. Besides, I will not refuse my consent after what you have told me. 
‘Marry Mademoiselle de la Valliére if you like.” 

- \Raoul was startled ; but suddenly, “ You are very kind, monsieur,” said 
he} “and your concession excites my warmest gratitude ; but I will not 

ccfept it.” , 


15 


226 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGHELONNE. 


“Then you now refuse ?” 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“T will not oppose you in anything, Raoul.” 

“But you have at the bottom of your heart an idea against this ma 
riage ; you have not chosen it.” 

“ That is true.” 

That is sufficient to make me not persist ; I will wait.” 

“ Beware, Raoul! what you are now saying is serious.” 

“I know it is, monsieur. As I said, I will wait.” 

“Until I die ?” said Athos, much agitated. 

‘Oh, monsieur !” cried Raoul, with tears in his eyes, “is it possib 
that you should wound my heart thus? I have never given you cause 
complaint !” 

“Dear boy, that is true,” murmured Athos, pressing his lips violent 
together to suppress the emotion of which he was no longer master. “N 
I will no longer afflict you ; only I do not comprehend what you mean 
waiting. Will you wait till you love no longer ?” 

“Ah! for that ! No, monsieur ; I will wait till you change your opinio 

“T should wish to put the matter to a test, Raoul ; I should like to 5 
if Mademoiselle de la Valliére will wait as you do.” a 

“T hope so, monsieur.” way 

“But take care, Raoul ; if she did not wait ? Ah, you are so young, § 
confiding, so loyal! Women are changeable.” ; 

“You have never spoken ill to me of women, monsieur ; you have neve: 
had to complain of them. Why should you doubt of Mademoiselle de I 
Valliére ?” 

“ That is true,” said Athos, casting down his eyes : “I have never spoker 
ill to you of women ; I have neyer had to complain of them ; Mademoiselle 
de la Valliére never gave birth to a suspicion ; but when we are looking 
forward, we must go even to exceptions, even to improbabilities! Zf ] 
say, Mademoiselle de la Valliére should not wait for you ?” 

““ How, monsieur 2” 

“If she turned her eyes another way ?” 

“If she looked favourably upon another man—do you mean that, mon- 
sieur ?” said Raoul, pale with agony, ——“ Exactly.” 

“Well, monsieur, I would kill that man,” said Raoul, simply, “and all 
the men whom Mademoiselle de la Vallire should choose, until one of 
ea had killed me, or Mademoiselle de la Valliére had restored me her 

eart. 

Athos started. “I thought,” resumed he, in an agitated voice, “that 
you called me just now your god, your law in this world.” 

“Oh !” said Raoul, trembling, “ you would forbid me the duel ?” 

“Tf I forbade it, Raoul ?” 


“You would forbid me to hope, monsieur ; consequently you would not 
forbid me to die.” 


Athos raised his eyes towards the vicomte, He had pronounced these 
words with the most melancholy inflection, accompanied by the most 


_melancholy look, “ Enough,” said Athos, after a long silence, “ enough 
of this subject, upon which we both go too far. Live as well as you are 


able, Raoul, perform your duties, love Mademoiselle de la Valliare ;ina 
word, act like a man, since you have attained the age of a man ; only do 
not forget that I love you tenderly, and that you profess to love me.” | 


{ 
' a ! monsieur le comte !” cried Raoul, pressing the hand of Athos ‘to 
is heart. \ 


A PASSION. 227 


“Enough, dear boy! leave me; I want rest. A propos, M. d’Artagnan 
has returned from England with me; you owe him a visit.” ; 
**T will go and pay it him, monsieur, with great pleasure. I love Mon- 
ieur d’Artagnan exceedingly.” 

“You are right in doing so ; he is a worthy man and a brave cavalier.” 

“Who loves you dearly.” 

“T am sure of that. Do you know his address ?” 

“At the Louvre, I suppose, or wherever the king is. Does he not 
ommand the musketeers ?” 

“No; at present M. d’Artagnan is absent on leave; he is resting a 
ittle. Do not, therefore, seek him at the posts of his service. You will 
ear of him at the house of a certain Planchet.” 

“ His former lackey ?” 
“ Exactly, turned grocer.” 
“T know ; Rue des Lombards ”” 
“ Somewhere thereabouts, or Rue des Arcis.” 
*T will find it, monsieur,—I will find it.” 
“You will say a thousand kind things to him, on my part, and ask him 
come and dine with me, before I set out for La Fére.” 
f* Yes, monsieur.” 
“ Good-night, Raoul !” 
“Monsieur, I see you wear an order I never saw you wear before ; 
/ accept my compliments.” 
“The Fleece !—that is true. A coral, my boy, which no longer amuses 
even an old child like myself. Good-night, Raoul.” 


CHAPTER LII. 
D’ARTAGNAN’S LESSON, 


RAOUL did not meet with D’Artagnan the next day, as he had hoped. He 
only met with Planchet, whose joy was great at seeing the young man 
again, and who contrived to pay him two or three little soldierly compli-. 
ments, savouring very little of the grocer’s shop. But as Raoul was re- 
turning the next day from. Vincennes, at the head of fifty dragoons confided 
‘to him by monsieur le prince, he perceived, in la Place Baudoyer, a man 
with his nose in the air, examining a house, as we examine a horse we 
» havea fancy to buy. This man, dressed in citizen costume buttoned up 
like a military pourpoint, a very small hat on his head, but a long shagreen- 
mounted sword by his side, turned his head as soon as he heard the steps 
of the horses, and left off looking at the house to look at the dragoons. 
This was simply M. d’Artagnan ; D’Artagnan on foot ; D’Artagnan with 
his hands behind him, passing a little review upon the dragoons, after 
having reviewed the buildings. Not a man, not a tag not a horse’s hoof 
escaped his inspection. Raoul rode at the side of his troop ; D’Artagnan 
perceived him the last. “Eh!” said he, “Eh! mordioux !” 
“T was not mistaken !” cried Raoul, turning his horse towards him. 
“Mistaken—no! Good day to you,” replied the ex-musketeer ; whilst 
Raoul eagerly pressed the hand of his old friend. ‘ Take care, Raoul,” 
said D’Artagnan, “the second horse of the fifth rank will lose a shoe before 
he gets to the Pont Marie ; he has only two nails left in his off fore-foot.” 
“Wait a minute, I will come back,” said Raoul. 
“Can you quit your detachment ?” 
“The cornet is there to take my place.” 
15—2 


228 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. wii 


“Then you will come and dine with me ?” 

“ Most willingly, Monsieur d’Artagnan.” ee 

“Be quick, then ; leave your horse, or make them give me one.” 

“T prefer coming back on foot with you.” 

Raoul hastened to give notice to the cornet, who took his post ; he the 
dismounted, gave his horse to one of the dragoons, and with great deligh 
seized the arm of M. d’Artagnan, who had watched him during all thes 
little evolutions, with the satisfaction of a connoisseur. 

“What, do you come from Vincennes ?” said he. 

“Yes, monsieur le chevalier.” 

“And the cardinal ?” 

“Ts very ill; it is even reported he is dead.” 

“Are you on good terms with M. Fouquet?” asked D’Artagnan, with 
disdainful movement of the shoulders, proving that the death of Mazari 
did not affect him beyond measure. 

“With M. Fouquet?” said Raoul; “I do not know him.” 

**So much the worse! so much the worse! for a new king always seek 
to get creatures.” 

“ Oh! the king means no harm,” replied the young man. 

“T say nothing about the crown,” cried D’Artagnan ; “I am speak 
of the king,—the king, that is M. Fouquet, if the cardinal is dead. ~ 
must contrive to be well with M. Fouquet, if you do not wish to mould 
away all your life as I have mouldered. It is true you have, fortunately, 
other protectors.” | 

‘“‘M. le prince, for instance.” 

Worn out! worn out !” 

““M. le Comte de la Fére ?” 

“Athos ! oh! that’s different ; yes, Athos—and if you have any wish to 
make your way in England, you cannot apply to a better person. I can 
even say, without too much vanity, that I myself have some credit at the 
court of Charles II. There is a king—God speed him !” 

“Ah !” cried Raoul, with the natural curiosity of well-born young people, 
while listening to experience and courage. . 

“Yes, a king who amuses himself, it is true, but who has had a sword 
in his hand, and can appreciate useful men. Athos is on good terms with 
Charles II. Take service there, and leave these scoundrels of contractors 
and farmers-general, who steal as well with French hands as others have 
done with Italian hands ; leave the little snivelling king, who is going to 
give us another reign of Francis II. Do you know anything of history, 
Raoul ?” 

“Yes, monsieur le chevalier.” 

“Do you know, then, that Francis II. had always the ear-ache ?” 

“ No, I did not know that.” 

“That Charles IV. had always the head-ache ?” 

“Indeed !” 

“ And Henry III. always the stomach-ache.” 

Raoul began to laugh. 

“Well, my dear friend, Louis XIV. always has the heart-ache; it is de- 
plorable to see a king sighing from morning till night, without saying once 
in the course of the day, ventre-saint-gris / corbeuf! or anything to rouse 
one. 


_ “Was that the reason why you quitted the service, monsieur le cheva- 
her 7? eViegs 


“But you yourself, M. D’Artagnan, are throwing the handle after the 
ax€ 5 you will not make a fortune.” | 


ne ESTES ge is 


DARTAGNAN’S LESSON. 229 


. “Who! I?” replied D’Artagnan in a careless tone; “I am settled—I 
ad some family property.” 

Raoul looked at him. The poverty of D’Artagnan was proverbial. A 
ascon, he exceeded in ill-luck all the gasconnades of France and Na- 
arre ; Raoul had a hundred times heard Job and D’Artagnan named 
gether, as the twins Romulus and Remus are named. D?’Artagnan 
aught Raoul’s look of astonishment. 

“And has not your father told you I have been in England ?” 

“Yes, monsieur le chevalier.” 

“ And that I had there met with a very lucky chance ?” 

“ No, monsieur, I did not know that.” 

“Yes, a very worthy friend of mine, a great nobleman, the Viceroy of 
cotland and Ireland, has endowed me with an inheritance.” 

“‘ An inheritance ?” 

“ And a good one, too.” 

“Then you are rich ?” 


‘Receive my sincere congratulation.” 

‘Thank you! Look, that is my house.” 

** Place de Gréve ?” 

“Yes, you don’t like this quarter ?” 

“ On the contrary, the look-out on the water is pleasant. Oh! what a 
pretty old house !” 

“The sign Nétre Dame ; it is an old cabaret, which I have transformed 
into a private house in two days.” 

“ But the cadaret is still open ?” 

“ Pardieu !” 

* And where do you lodge then ?” 

“T? I lodge with Planchet.” 

“You said just now, ‘ This is my house.’ ” 

*“T said so, because, in fact, it is my house. I have bought it.” 

“Ah !” said Raoul. 

** At ten years’ purchase, my dear Raoul ; a superb affair ; I bought the 
house for thirty thousand livres: it has a garden opens to the Rue de la 
Matillerie ; the cabaret lets for a thousand livres, with the first story ; the 
garret, or second floor, for five hundred livres.” 

“Indeed !” 

“Yes, indeed.” 

“Five hundred livres for a garret ? Why, that is not habitable.” 

“Therefore no one does inhabit it; only you see this garret has two 
windows which look out upon the Place.” 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“Well, then, every time anybody is broken on the wheel or hung, 
quartered, or burnt, these two windows are let for twenty pistoles,” 

“Oh !” said Raoul, with horror. 

“It is disgusting ; is it not?” said D’Artagnan. 

“Oh !” repeated Raoul. 

“It is disgusting, but soit is. These Parisian cockneys are sometimes 
zeal anthropophagi. I cannot conceive how men, Christians, can make 
such speculations.” , 

“That is true.” 

_“ As for myself,” continued D’Artagnan, “if I inhabited that house on 
days of execution, I would shut it up to the very keyholes ; but I do not 
inhabit it.” 


230 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


‘And you let the garret for five hundred livres?” | 

“To the ferocious cabaretier, who sub-lets it. I said then fifteen hun 
dred livres.” 

“ The natural interest of money,” said Raoul,—“ five per cent.” 

_ “Exactly so. I then have left the side of the house at the back 
magazines, lodgings, and cellars, inundated every winter, two hundre 
livres ; and the garden, which is very fine, well planted, well shaded unde 
the walls and the portal of Saint-Gervais-Saint-Protais, thirteen hundre 
livres.” 

“ Thirteen hundred livres! why that is royal !” 

“This is the history of it. I strongly suspect some canon of the paris 
(these canons are all as rich as Croesus)—I suspect some canon of havin 
hired the garden to take his pleasure in. The tenant has given the nam 
of M. Godard. That is either a false name or a real name ; if true, hei 
a canon, if false, he is some unknown ; but of what consequence is it t 
me? he always pays in advance. I had also an idea just now, when 
met you, of buying a house in the Place Baudoyer, the back premises 
which join my garden, and would make a magnificent property. Yo 
dragoons interrupted my calculations. But come, let us take the Rue « 
Vannerie, that will lead us straight to M. Planchet’s.” D’Artagnan mend 
his pace, and conducted Raoul to Planchet’s dwelling, a chamber of whic 
the grocer had given up to his old master. Planchet was out, but tHe 
dinner was ready. There was a remains of military regularity and punc- 
tuality preserved in the grocer’s household. D’Artagnan returned to the 
chapter of Raoul’s future. 

“Your father keeps you rather strictly >” said he. 

“ Justly, monsieur le chevalier.” 

“Oh, yes, I know Athos is just ; but close, perhaps ?” 

‘A royal hand, Monsieur d’Artagnan.” 

“Well, never want, my boy! If ever youstand in need of a few pistoles, 
the old musketeer is at hand.” 

“My dear Monsieur d’Artagnan.” 

“Do you play a little ?” “* Neven”™ 

* Successful with the ladies, then >—Oh! my little Aramis! That, my 
dear friend, costs still more than play. Itis true we fight when we lose ; that 
is a compensation. Bah! the little sniveller of a king makes men who 
draw pay for it. Whata reign! my poor Raoul, what a reign! When 
we think that, in my time, the musketeers were besieged in their houses, 
like Hector and Priam in the city of Troy ; and then the women wept, 
and then the walls laughed, and then five hundred beggarly fellows clapped 
their hands, and cried, ‘ Kill! kill! when not one musketeer was hurt !: 
Mordioux ! you will never see anything like that.” ya 

“You are very hard upon the king, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan; and 
yet you scarcely know him.” 

“T! Listen Raoul. Day by day, hour by hour,—take note of my 
words,—I will predict what he will do. The cardinal being dead, he will 
weep : very well, that is the thing the least silly he will do, particularly if 
he does not shed a tear.” 

** And then ?” 

~ “Why then he will get M. Fouquet to allow him a pension, and will go 
and compose verses at Fontainebleau, upon some Mancini or other, whose 
eyes the queen will scratch out. She is a Spaniard, see you,—this queen 
of ours ; and she has, as a mother-in-law, Madame Anne of Austria. I 
know something of the Spaniards of the house of Austria,” 


IYARTAGNAN'S LESSON 


And next ?” 

-“Well? after having torn off the silver lace from the uniforms of his 
Swiss, because lace is too expensive, he will dismount the musketeers, be- 
cause the oats and hay of a horse cost five suls a day.” 

“Oh ! do not say that.” 

“Of what consequence is it to me; I am no longer a musketeer, am I? 
Let them be on horseback, let them be on foot, let them carry a larding- 
pin, a spit, a sword, or nothing —w hat is it to me ?” 

“ My dear Monsieur d’ Artagnan, I beseech you, say no more ill to me 
of the king. I am almost in his service, and my father would be very 
angry with me for having heard even from your mouth words that were 
offensive to his majesty.” 

“Your father, eh! He is a knight in every bad cause. Pardieu! 
yes, your father is a brave, is a Cesar, it is true, but a man without 
perception.” 

“Now, my dear chevalier,” exclaimed Raoul, laughing, “what are you 
soing to ‘speak ill of my father, of him you call the great Athos: Truly 
ou are in a bad vein to-day ; riches render you as sour as poverty renders 
her people.” 

“Pardieu ! you are right. I am a rascal and in my dotage ; I am an un- 

appy wretch grown old ; a forage cord untwisted, a pierced culrass, a 

boot without a sole, a spur without a rowel ;—but do me the pleasure to 
say one thing for me ?” 

“What is that, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan ?” 

“ Say this to me: ‘ Mazarin was a pitiful wretch.’” 

“Perhaps he is dead.” 

“ More the reason,—I say was, if I did not hope that he was dead, I 
would entreat you to say: ‘ Mazarin zs a pitiful wretch.’ Come say so, say 
so, for the love of me.” 

“ Well, I will.” 

Beye 

“ Mazarin was a pitiful wretch,” said Raoul, smiling at the musketeer, 
who roared with laughter as in his best days. 

“A moment,” said the latter, “you have spoken my first proposition, 
here is the conclusion of it,—repeat, Raoul, repeat: ‘ But I regret 
Mazarin.’ ” 

“ Chevalier !” 

“You will not say it? Well, then, I will say it twice for you.” 

* But you would regret Mazarin?” 

And they were still laughing and discussing this digesting of a profession 
of principles, when one of the shop-boys entered. “A letter, monsieur,” 
said he, “ for M. d’Artagnan.” 

“Thank you ; give it me,” cried the musketeer. 

“The handwriting of monsieur le comte,” said Raoul. 

“Yes, yes.” And D’Artagnan broke the seal. 

“ Dear friend,” said Athos, “a person has just been here to beg me to 
seek for you on the pait of the king.” 

“Seek me!” said D’Artagnan, letting the paper fall upon the table 
Raoul picked it up, and continued to read aloud :— 

_ “Make haste. His majesty is very anxious to speak to you, and expects 
you at the Louvre.” 

“Expects me!” again repeated the musketeer. 

** He, he, he !” laughed Raoul. 

#8 Oh, oh!” replied ‘D'aArtagnan. “What the devil can this mean ”” 


VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


CHAPTER LIIIL 
THE KING. 


THE first movement of surprise over, D’Artagnan re-perused Athos’s note. 
“It is strange,” said he, “ that the king should send for me.” 

_ “Why so? said Raoul; “do you not think, monsieur, that the king 

must regret such a servant as you ?” 

“ Oh, oh !” cried the officer, laughing with all his might ; “ you are jeer- 
ing me, master Raoul. If the king had regretted me he would not have 
let me leave him. No, no; I see in it something better, or worse, if you 
like.” 

“Worse! What can that be, monsieur le chevalier ?” 

“You are young, you are a boy, you are admirable. Oh, how I should 
like to be as you are. To be but twenty-four, with an unfurrowed brow, 
under which the brain is void of everything but woman, love, and good in- 
tentions. Oh, Raoul, as long as you have not received the smile of kings, 
the confidence of queens ! as long as you have not had two cardinal 
killed under you, the one a tiger, the other a fox ; as long as 
have not But what is the good of all this trifling? We must par 
Raoul.” 

“How you speak that! What a serious face !” , 

“Eh! but the occasion is worthy of it. Listen to me, I have a very 
good recommendation to make you.” 

“T am all attention, Monsieur d’Artagnan.” 

“ You will go and inform your father of my departure.” 

“Your departure ?” 

“ Pardiew /—You will tell him that Iam gone into England; and that 
am living in my little country-house.” | 

“In England, you! And the king’s orders ?” 

“You get more and more silly : do you imagine that I am going in that 
way to the Louvre, to place myself at the disposal of that little crowned 
wolf-cub ?” . 

“The king a wolf-cub? Why, monsieur le chevalier, you are mad !” 

“On the contrary, I was never so much otherwise. You do not know 
what he wants to do with me, this worthy son of Louzs le ‘Fuste /—But, 
mordtoux / that ispolicy.—He wishes to ensconce me snugly in the Bastille, 
purely and simply, see you !” 

“What for?” cried Raoul, terrified at what he heard. 

“On account of what I told him one day at Blois. I was warm ; he 
remembers it.” 

“You told him what ?” 

“That he was mean, cowardly, and silly.” 

“Good God !” cried Raoul, “is it possible that such words should have 
issued from your mouth ?” 

“Perhaps I don’t give the letter of my speech, but I give the sense of it.” 

“ But did not the king have you arrested immediately ?” 

“By whom? It was I who commanded the musketeers ; he must have 
commanded me to convey myself to prison; I would never have con- 
sented : I would have resisted myself. And then I went into England— 
no more D’Artagnan. Now, the cardinal is dead, or nearly so, they learn 
that I am in Paris, and they lay their hands on me.” 

“The cardinal was then your protector ?” tah 

“The cardinal knew me ; he knew certain particularities of me ; I also 


— 


PHL KING, 233 


knew certain of him; we appreciated each other mutually. And then; on 

rendering his soul to the devil, he would recommend Anne of Austria to 
make me the inhabitant of a safe place. Go then and find your father, 
relate the fact to him—and, adieu !” 

“My dear Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Raoul, very much agitated, after 

having looked out at the window, “ you cannot even fly !” 

“Why not ?” 

% Because there is below an officer of the Swiss guards waiting for you.” 

Well !” 

“Well, he will arrest you.” 

D’Artagnan broke into an Homeric laugh. 

“Oh! I know very well that you will resist, that you will fight even ; I 
know very well that you will prove conqueror ; but that amounts to re- 
bellion, and you are an officer yourself, knowing what discipline is.” 

“ Devil of a boy, how noble, how logical that is !” grumbled D’Artagnan. 

“You approve of it, do you not ?” 

“Yes, instead of passing into the street, where that oaf is waiting for 
me, I will slip quietly out at the back. I have a horse in the stable, and 
». good one. I will burst him, my means permit me to do so, and by 
killing one horse after another, I shall arrive at Boulogne in eleven hours ; 
I know the road. Only tell your father one thing.” 

“ What is that ?” 

“That is—that that which he knows about is placed at Planchet’s house, 
except a fifth, and that r 

“But, my dear M. d’Artagnan, be assured that if you fly, two things will 
be said of you.” 

“What are they, my dear friend ?” 

“ The first, that you have been afraid.” 

* Ah! and who will dare to say that ?” 

“ The king, the first.” 

“Well! but he will tell the truth,—I am afraid.” 

' “ The second, that you felt yourself guilty.” 

“ Guilty of what ?” 

“Why, of the crimes they wish to impute to you.” 

“That is true again. So, then, you advise me to go and get myself 
made a prisoner in the Bastille ?” 

“MM. le Comte de la Fére would advise you just as I do.” 

“ Pardieu ! 1 know he would,” said DA’rtagnan thoughtfully. “ You 
are right, I shall not escape. But if they cast me into the Bastille ?” 

“We will get you out again,” said Raoul, with a quiet, calm air. 

“ Mordioux / You said that after a brave fashion, Raoul,” said D’Artag- 
nan, seizing his hand; “that savours of Athos, quite pure. Well, I will 
go, then. Do not forget my last word.” 

“Except a fifth,” said Raoul. 

“Yes, you are a fine boy! and I wish you to add one thing to that last 
word.” 

“Speak, chevalier !” ‘ 

“Tt is that if you cannot get me out of the Bastille, and that I remain 
there—Oh ! that will be so, and I shall be a detestable prisoner ; I, who 
have been a passable man,—in that case, I give three-fifths to you, and 
the fourth to your father.” 

“ Chevalier !” : 

“ Mordioux! If you will have some masses said for me, you are wel- 
come,” 


234 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


That being said, D’Artagnan took his belt from the hook, girded on his 
sword, took a hat the feather of which was fresh, and held his hand oxs to 
Raoul, who threw himself into his arms. When in the shop, he cast a 
quick glance at the shop-lads, who looked upon the scene with a pride 
mingled with some inquietude ; then plunging his hands into a chest of 
currants, he went straight to the officer who was waiting for him at the door. 

“Those features! Can it be you, Monsieur de Friedisch ?” cried 
D’Artagnan, gaily. “Eh! eh! what, do we arrest our friends ?” 

“ Arrest !” whispered the lads among themselves. 

“Yes, it is I, Monsieur d’Artagnan ! Good-day to you !” said the Swiss, 
in his mountain fa‘ozrs. 

“Must I give you up my sword? I warn you, that it is longand heavy ; 
you had better let me wear it to the Louvre ; I feel quite lost in the streets 
without a sword, and you would be more at a loss than I should, with two.” 

‘The king has given no orders about it,” replied the Swiss, “so keep 
your sword.” 

‘Well, that is very polite on the part of the king. Let us go, at once.” , 

Monsieur Friedisch was not a talker, and D’Artagnan had too much t 
think about to be one. From Planchet’s shop to the Louvre was not fa 
—they arrivedinten minutes. It was dark night. M. de Friedisch wante 
to enter by the wicket. ‘“ No,” said D’Artagnan, “ you would lose time by 
’ that ; take the little staircase.” - 

The: Swiss did as D’Artagnan advised, and conducted him to the vesti- 
bule of the king’s cabinet. When arrived there, he bowed to his prisoner, 
ar:d, without saying anything, returned to his post. D’Artagnan had not 
had time to ask why his sword was not taken from him, when the door of 
the cabinet opened, and a valet-de-chambre called, ‘““M. D’Artagnan !” 
The musketeer assumed his parade carriage, and entered, with his large 
eyes wide open, his brow calm, his moustache stiff. The king was seated 
at atable writing. He did not disturb himself when the step of the muske- 
teer resounded on the floor; he did not even turn his head. D’Artagnan 
advanced as far as the middle of the room, and seeing that the king paid 
no attention to him, and suspecting besides, that that was nothing but 
affectation, a sort of tormenting preamble to the explanation which was 
preparing, he turned his back on the prince, and began to examine the 
frescoes on the cornices, and the cracks in the ceiling. This manceuvre 
was accompanied by this little tacit monologue. “Ah! you want to 
humble me, do you ?—you, whom I have seen so young,—you, whom I 
have saved as I would my own child,—you, whom I have served as I 
would a God—that is to say, fornothing. Wait awhile! wait awhile! you 
shall see what a man can do who has snuffed the air of the fire of the 
Huguenots, under the beard of monsieur le cardinal—the true cardinal.” 
At this moment Louis turned round. 

“‘ Ah, are you there, Monsieur d’Artagnan ?” said he. 

D’Artagnan saw the movement, and imitated it. ‘ Yes, sire,” said he. 

“Very well; have the goodness to wait till I have cast this up.” 

D’Artagnan made no reply ; he only bowed. “ That is polite enough,” 
thought he; “I have nothing to say.” 

Louis made a violent dash with his pen, and threw it angrily away. 

“Ah, go on—work yourself up !” thought the musketeer ; “ you will put 
me at my ease. You shall find I did not empty the bag, the other day, at 
Blois !” 

Louis rose from his seat, passed his hand over his brow ; then, stopping 
opposite to D’Artagnan, he looked at him with an air at once imperious 


THE KING. ~- 235 


and kind. “What the devil does he want with me? I wish he would 
begin !” thought the musketeer. 

“ Monsieur,” said the king, “ you know, without doubt, that Monsieur 
le Cardinal is dead ?” 

““T suspected so, sire.” 

“ You know, that, consequently, I am master in my own kingdom ?” 

“That is not a thing that dates from the death of Monsieur le Cardinal, 
sire : a man is always master in his own house, when he wishes to be so.” 

“Ves ; but do you remember all yor. said to me at Blois?” 

“Now we come to it,” thought D’Artagnan; “I was not deceived. 
Well, so much the better; it is a sign that my scent is tolerably keen yet.” 

“You do not answer me,” said Louis. 

“ Sire, I think I recollect.” 

“You only think ?” 

“Tt is so long ago.” 

“Tf you do not remember, I do. You said to me—listen with attention.” 

“ Ah, I shall listen with all my ears, sire ; for it is very likely the con- 
versation will turn in a fashion very interesting to me.” 

, Louis once more looked at the musketeer. The latter smoothed the 
feather of his hat, then his moustache, and waited intrepidly. Louis XIV. 
continued, “‘ You quitted my service, monsieur, after having told me the 
whole truth ?” 

Yes, sire.” 

“That is, after having declared to me all you thought to be true with 
regard to my mode of thinking and acting. That is always a merit. You 
began by telling me that you had served my family thirty years, and were 
tired.” 

““T said so; yes, sire.” 

“ And you afterwards admitted that that fatigue was a pretext, and that 
discontent was the real cause.” 

“‘T was discontented, in fact; but that discontent has never betrayed 
itself that I know of ; and if, like aman of heart, I have spoken out before 
your majesty, I have-not even thought of the matter in face of anvbody 
etsé.? 

“Do not excuse yourself, D’Artagnan, but continue to listen to me. 
When making me the reproach that you were discontented, you received 
in reply a promise. Wait ; is not that true ’” 

“Ves, sire, as true as what I told you.” 

“You answered me, ‘ Hereafter? No, now immediately.’ Do not excuse 
yourself, I tell you. It was natural ; but you had no charity f r your poor 
prince, Monsieur d’Artagnan.” 

“Sire, charity for a king on the part of a poor soldier !” 

“You understand me very well. You knew that I stood in. need of it ; 
you knew very well that I was not master; you knew very well that my 
hope was in the future. Now, you replied to me when I spoke of that 
fature, ‘My discharge, and that directly.’” 

“ That is true,” murmured D’Artagnan, biting his moustache. 

“Vou did not flatter me when I was in distress,” added Louis. 

“But,” said D’Artagnan, raising his head nobly, “if I did not flatter 
your majesty when poor, neither did I betray you. I have shed my blood 
for nothing ; I have watched like a dog at a door, knowing full well that 
neither bread nor bone would be thrown to me. I, although poor like- 
wise, asked nothing of your majesty but the discharge you speak of.” 

“T know you are a brave man, but I was a young man and you ought 


2 36 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


to have had some indulgence for me. What had you to reproach theking | 
* with—that he left King Charles II. without assistance? Let us say further | 
—that he did not marry Mademoiselle de Mancini?” When saying these 
words, the king fixed upon the musketeer a searching look. | 

“ Ah, ah !” thought the latter, ““he is doing more than remembering ; he | 
is guessing. The devil !” | 

“Vour sentence,” continued Louis, “fell upon the king and fell upon | 
the man. But, Monsieur d’Artagnan, that weakness, for you considered it | 
a weakness ?”?—D’Artagnan made no reply.—‘‘ You reproached me also © 
with regard to monsieur the defunct cardinal. Now, monsieur le cardinal, 
did he not bring me up, did he not support me ?—elevating himself and 
supporting himself at the same time, I admit ; but the benefit was dis- 
charged. As an ingrate or an egotist, would you, then, have better loved 
me or served me ?” 

oie V2 

“We will say no more about it, monsieur ; it would only create you too — 
many regrets, and me too much pain.” 

D’Artagnan was not convinced. The young king, in adopting a tone of 
hauteur with him, did not forward his purpose. | 
_ “You have since reflected ?” resumed Louis. 

“ Upon what, sire ?” asked D’Artagnan, politely. 

“Why, upon all that I have said to you, monsieur.” 

“Yes, sire, no doubt——” 

“And you have only waited for an opportunity of retracting your 
words ?” 

preire.” 

“You hesitate, it seems.” 

“T do not understand what your majesty did me the honour to say 
to me?” 

Louis’s brow became cloudy. 

“Have the goodness to excuse me, sire ; my understanding is particu- 
larly thick ; things do not penetrate it without difficulty ; but it is true, 
when once they get in, they remain there.” 

“Yes, yes ; you appear to have a memory.” 

“Almost as good a one as your majesty’s.” 

“Then give me quickly one solution. My time is valuable. What have 
you been doing since your discharge ?” 

“Making my fortune, sire.” 

“The expression is rude, Monsieur d’Artagnan.” 

“Your majesty takes it in bad part, certainly. I entertain nothing but 
the profoundest respect for the king ; and if I have been unpolite, which 
might be excused by my long sojourn in camps and barracks, your majesty 
is too much above me to be offended at a word innocently escaped froma 
soldier.” 

“In fact, I know that you have performed a brilliant action in England, 
monsieur. I only regret that you have broken your promise.” 

"L? cred)’ Artagnan. 

‘Doubtless. You engaged your word not to serve any other prince on 
quitting my service. Now, it was for King Charles II. that you undertook 
the marvellous carrying off of M. Monk.” 

“Pardon me, sire; it was for myself.” \ 

“And did you succeed ?” . 


“Like the captains of the fifteenth century, cowps-de-main and a‘\ven- 
tures. 


THE KING. 237 


* What do you call succeeding ?—a fortune ?” 

“ A hundred thousand crowns, sire, which I possess—that is, in one week, 
ihe triple of all I ever had in money in fifty years.” 

“TItis a handsome sum. But you are ambitious, I believe ?” 

_ “JT, sire? The quarter of it would be a treasure, and I swear to you I 
have‘ no thought of augmenting it.” 

“What ! do you contemplate remaining idle ?” 

“Yes, sire.’ 

0 quit the sword ?” 

“‘ That is done.” 

“Impossible, Monsieur d’Artagnan !” said Louis, firmly. 

* But, sire——” 

(¢3 Well; Pp? 

What for ?” 

“Because I will that you shall not !” said the young prince, in a voice 
so stern and imperious that D’Artagnan evinced surprise and even un- 
easiness. 

“Will your majesty allow me one word of reply ?” said he. 


“ S eak. » 
¥ “ I formed that resolution when I was poor and destitute.” 
& ‘So be it. Go on.’ 

“Now, when by my industry I have acquired a comfortable means of 
subsistence, would your majesty despoil me of my liberty? Your plat ap 
would condemn me to the least, when I have gained the most.” ; 

“Who gave you permission, monsieur, to * fathom my designs, or to 
reckon with me ?” replied Louis, in a voice almost angry. ‘Who told you 
what I shall do, or what you will yourself do ?” 

“¢ Sire,” said the musketeer, quietly, “‘as far as I see, freedom is not the 
order of the conversation, as it was on the day we came to an explanation 
at Blois.” : 

“No, monsieur ; everything is changed.” 

““T make your majesty my sincere compliments upon that, but——” 

“ But you don’t believe it ?” 

“Tam not a great statesman, and yet I have my eye upon affairs ; it 
seldom fails. Now, I do not see exactly as your majesty does, sire. The 
reign of Mazarin is over, but that of the financiers is begun. They have 
the money ; your majesty will not often see much of it. To live under the 
paw of these hungry wolves is hard for a man who reckoned upon inde- 
pendence.” 

At this moment some one scratched at the door of the cabinet. The 
king raised his head proudly. ‘‘Your pardon, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” 
said he; “it is M. Colbert, who comes to make mea report. Come in, 
M. Colbert.” 

D’Artagnan drew back. Colbert entered with papers in his hand, and 
went up to the king. There can be little doubt that the Gascon did not 
lose the opportunity of applying his keen, quick glance to the new figure 
which presented itself. 

“Ts the inquiry, then, made ?” 

~ Yes. sire.” 

“ And the opinion of the inquisitors ?” 

“Ts that the accused merit confiscation and death.” 

“ Ah, ah !” said the king, without changing countenance, and casting an 
oblique look at D’Artagnan. “ And your own opinion, M. Colbert } ?” said he. 

Colbert looked et D’Artagnan in his turn, That imposing countenance 


238 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, — 


checked the words upon his lips. Louis perceived this. “Do not disturb 
yourself,” said he ; “it is M.d’Artagnan. Do you not know M, d’Artagnan 
again P” 

GThese two men looked at each other—D’Artagnan with his eye open 
and bright, Colbert with his eye half-closed and dim. The frank intre- 
pidity of the one displeased the other ; the cautious circumspection of the 
financier displeased the soldier. ‘Ah, ah! this is the gentleman who 
made that brilliant stroke in England,” said Colbert; and he bowed 
slightly to D’Artagnan. 

“ Ah, ah !” said the Gascon, “ this is the gentleman who clipped off the 
lace from the uniform of the Swiss! A praiseworthy piece of economy !” 

The financier thought to embarrass the musketeer ; but the musketeer 
ran the financier right through. 

“ Monsieur d’Artagnan,” resumed the king, who had not remarked all 
the shades, of which Mazarin would not have missed one, “ this concerns 
the farmers of the revenue who have robbed me, whom I am hanging, and 
whose death-warrants I am about to sign.” 

“Oh, oh !” said D’Artagnan, starting. 

“What did you say?” 

_ “Oh, nothing, sire ; this is no business of mine.” 

The king had already taken up the pen, and was applying it to the paper? 

“ Sire,” said Colbert, in a subdued voice, “I beg to warn your majesty 
that, if an example be necessary, that example may find some difficulty in 
the execution.” / 

“What do you say ?” said Louis. 

“You must not conceal from yourself,” continued Colbert quietly, “ that 
attacking the farmers-general is attacking the surintendance. The two. 
unfortunate guilty men in question are the particular friends of a powerful 
personage, and the day of punishment, which otherwise might be stifled in 
the Chatelet, disturbances will arise without doubt.” 

Louis coloured and turned towards D’Artagnan, who took a slight bite 
at his moustache, not without a smile of pity for the financier, as likewise 
for the king, who had to listen to him so long. But Louis seized the pen, 
and, with a movement so rapid that his hand shook, he affixed his signa- 
ture at the bottom of the two papers presented by Colbert ; then, looking 
the latter in the face, ‘‘ Monsieur Colbert,” said he, “‘ when you speak to 
me of affairs, exclude more frequently the word difficulty from your reason- 
ings and opinions ; as to the word impossibility, never pronounce it.” 

Colbert bowed, much humiliated at having undergone such a lesson 
before the musketeer: he was.about to go out, but, jealous to repair his 
check: “I forgot to announce to your majesty,” said he, “that the cor- 
fiscations amount to the sum of five millions of livres.” 

“ That’s pretty,” thought D’Artagnan. 

“ Which makes in my coffers?” said the king. 

“ Eighteen millions of livres, sire,” replied Colbert, bowing. 

“ Mordioux /” grumbled D’Artagnan, “that’s glorious !”? — 

“ Monsieur Colbert,” added the king, “ you will, ifyou please, go through 
the gallery where M. Lyonne is waiting, and will tell him to bring hither 
what he has drawn up—by my order.” 

“Directly, sire ; if your majesty wants me no more this evening ?” 

“No, monsieur ; adieu !” And Colbert went out. : 

_“Now, let us return to our affair, M. d’Artagnan,” said the king, as if 
nothing had happened. “You see that with respect to money, there is 
already a notable change.” 


THE RING. sis 239 


“ Something like from zero to eighteen millions,” replied the musketeer, 

gaily. “Ah! that was what your majesty wanted the day King Charles II. 

came to Blois. The two states would not have been embroiled to-day ; for 
I must say, that there also I see another stumbling-block.” 

“Well, in the first place,” replied Louis, “you are unjust, monsieur ; 
for, if Providence had made me able to give my brother the million that 
day, you would not have quitted my service, and, consequently, you would 
not have made your fortune, as you told me just now you have done. But, 
in addition to this, I have had another piece of good fortune ; and my 
difference with Great Britain need not alarm you.” 

A valet de chambre interrupted the king by announcing M. Lyonne. 
“Come in, monsieur,” said the king; “you are punctual; that is like a 
good servant. Let us see your letter to my brother Charles IJ.” 

D’Artagnan pricked up his ears. “A moment, monsieur,” said Louis, 
carelessly, to the Gascon ; “‘I must expedite to London my consent to the 
marriage of my brother, M. le duc d’Anjou, with the Princess Henrietta 

Stuart.” 
“ He is knocking me about, it seems,” murmured D’Artagnan, whilst 
‘i king signed the letter, and dismissed M. de Lyonne; “but, ma 


ot ! the more he knocks me about in this manner, the better I shall 
e pleased.” 
J The king followed M. de Lyonne with his eyes, till the door was 
closed behind him ; he even made three steps, as if he would follow the 
minister; but, after these three steps, stopping, pausing, and coming 
back to the musketeer,--“‘ Now, monsieur,” said he, “let us hasten to 


terminate our affair. You told me the other day, at Blois, that you were 
not rich ?” 


“ But I am now, sire.” 

“Yes, but that does not concern me ; you have your own money, not 
mine ; that does not enter into my account.” 

“T do not well understand what your majesty means.” 

“Then, instead of leaving you to draw out your words, speak sponta- 
neously. Should you be satisfied with twenty thousand livres a-year, as a 
fixed income ?” 

‘* But, sire,” said D’Artagnan, opening his eyes to the utmost. 

“Would you be satisfied with four horses furnished and kept, and with 
a supplement of funds, such as you should require, according to occasions 
and needs, or would you prefer a fixed sum which would be, for example, 
forty thousand livres? Answer.” 

“Sire, your majesty——” 

“Yes, you are surprised, that is natura., and I expected it. Answer me, 
come! or I shall think you have no longer that rapidity of judgment I 
have so much admired in you.” 


“Tt is certain, sire, that twenty thousand livres a-year make a handsome 
sum ; but ig 


“No buts! Yes or no, is it an honourable indemnity ?” 

“Oh! certes # 

“You will be satisfied with it? Well, that is well. It will be better to 
reckon the extra expenses separately ; you can arrange that with Colbert. 
Now, let us pass to something more important.” 

“But, sire, I told your majesty é 

“That you wanted rest, I know you did; onlv 1 replied that I would not 
allow it—I am master, I suppose ?” 

“Yes, sire,” - 


240 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“ That is well. You were formerly in the way of becoming captain of 
the musketeers ?” 

“Yes, sire,” ts 

“Well, here is your commission signed. I place it in this drawer. The 
day on which you shall return from a certain expedition which I have to 
confide to you, on that day you may yourself take the commission from 
the drawer. D’Artagnan still hesitated, and hung down his head. 
“Come, monsieur,” said the king, “one would believe, to look at you, 
that you did not know that at the court of the most Christian king, the 
captain general of the musketeers takes precedence of the maréchals of 
France.” 

.““ Sire, I know he does.” 

“Then I must fancy you do not put faith in my word ?” 

“Oh! sire, never—never dream of such a thing.” 

“‘T have wished to prove to you, that you, so good a servant, had lost a 
good master ; am I anything like the master that will suit you ?” 

“TI begin to think you are, sire.” 

“Then, monsieur, you will resume your functions. Your company is 
quite disorganised since your departure, and the men go about drinking 
and rioting in the cabarets, where they fight, in spite of my edicts, or thoy 
of my father. You will reorganise the service as quickly as possible.” 
eaves, sire. he” 

“ You will not again quit my person.” 

“Very well, sire.” 

“You will march with me to the army, you will encamp round my tent.” 

“Then, sire,” said D’Artagnan, “ifit is only to impose upon me a service 
like that, your majesty need not give me twenty thousand livres a-year. I 
shall not earn them.” 

“T desire that you shall keep open house; I desire that you should 
keep an open table ; I desire that my captain of musketeers should be a 
personage.” 

“And I,” said D’Artagnan bluntly, “I do not like easily found money. 
I like money won! Your majesty gives me an idle trade, which the first 
comer would perform for four thousand livres.” 

Louis XIV. began to laugh. “You are a true Gascon, Monsieur d’Ar- 
tagnan, you will draw my heart’s secret from me.” 

“Bah ! has your majesty a secret, then ?” 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“Well! then I accept the twenty thousand livres, for I will keep that 
secret, and discretion is above all price, in these times. Will your majesty 
speak now ?” 

“You will get booted, Monsieur d’Artagnan, and mount on horseback.” 

“ Directly, sire.” 

“Within two days.” 

“That is well, sire ; for 1 have my affairs to settle before I set out ; par- 
ticularly if it is likely there should be any blows stirring.” 

“That may happen.” 

“We can receive them ! But, sire, you have addressed yourself to the 
avarice, to the ambition ; you have addressed yourself to the heart of 
M. d@’Artagnan, but you have forgotten one thing.” 

“What is that ?” . 

“You have said nothing to his vanity ; when shall I be a knight of the 
king’s orders ?” 

“Does that interest you ?” 


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‘‘yoU SHALL BE A KNIGHT OF MY ORDERS A MONTH AFTER YOU HAVE TAKEN 
YOUR COMMISSION OF CAPTAIN.” 


| THE KING. | 241 


“Why, yes, sire. My friend Athos is quite covered with orders, and 
that dazzles me.” 
“ You shall be a knight of my order a month after you have taken your 
commission of captain.” 
' “Ah! ah !” said the officer, thoughtfully, “ after the expedition.” 

“ Precisely.” 
' “Where is your majesty going to send me?” 
“Are you acquainted with Bretagne ?” 
“* No, sire.” 
“Have you any friends there ?” 
“In Bretagne? No, ma/foi !” . 
“So much the better. Do you know anything abou. tortifications !” 
“JT believe I do, sire,” said D’Artagnan, smiling. 
“That is to say, you can readily distinguish a fortress from a simple 
drtification, such as 1s allowed to chd¢elazns or vassals ?” 

“| distinguish a fort from a rampart as I distinguish a cuirass from a 
aised pie-crust, sire. Is that sufficient ?” 
“Yes, monsieur. You will set out then?” 
‘‘ For Bretagne ?”——“‘ Yes.” 
» Alone ?” 
Absolutely alone. That is to say, you must not even take a lackey 
wth you.” 

( May I ask your majesty for what reason ?” 

-“ Because, monsieur, it will be necessary to disguise yourself sometimes, 
as the servant of a good family. Your face is very well known in France, 
M. d@’Artagnan.” 

*¢ And then, sire ?” 

‘‘Andthen you will travel slowly through Bretagne, and will examine 
carefully the fortifications of that country.” 

“The coasts ?” 

“Yes, and the isles ; commencing by Belle-Isle-en-Mer.” 

“Ah! which belongs to M. Fououet ?” said D’Artagnan, in a serious 
tone, raising his intelligent eye to Louis XIV. 

“YT fancy you are right, monsieur, and that Belle-Isle does belong to 

M. Fouquet, in fact.” 

“Then your majesty wishes me to ascertain if Belle-Isleis a good place ?” 

oe Yes.” 

“ Tf the fortifications of it are new or old ?”»——“‘ Precisely.” 

“And if the vassals of M. Fouquet are sufficiently numerous to form a 
garrison ?” 

“That is what I want to know; you have placed your finger on the 
question.” 

“ And if they are not fortifying, sire ?” 

“You will travel about Bretagne, listening and judging.” 

“Then I am a king’s spy?” said D’Artagnan, bluntly, twisting his 
moustache. 

“* No, monsieur.” 

“Your pardon, sire; I spy on your majesty’s account.” 

“You go on a discovery, monsieur. Would you march at the head of 
your musketeers, with your sword in your hand, to observe any spot what- 

ever, or an enemy’s position ?” 
At this word D’Artagnan started. 
“Do you,” continued the king, “ imagine yourself to be a spy ?” 
“No, no,” said D’Artagnan, but pensively ; “the thing changes its face 


16 


fn 


oe 


oe a ee a ee» | 


242 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


when one observes an enemy: one is but a soldier. And if they 
fortifying Belle-Isle ?” added he, quickly. 

“You will take an exact plan of the fortifications.” 

“Will they permit me to enter ?” 

“That does not concern me, that is your affair. Did you not understa 
that I reserved for you a supplement of twenty thousand livres per annu 
if you wished for it ?” 

“Yes, sire ; but if they are not fortifying ?” 

“You will return quietly, without fatiguing your horse.” 

moire, amaready.” 

“You will begin to-morrow by going to monsieur le surintendan 
to take the first quarter of the pension I give you. Do you know 
Fouquet ?” 

“Very little, sire ; but I beg your majesty to observe that I don’t thi 
it very urgent that I should know him.” 

“T ask your pardon, monsieur ; for he will refuse you the money I wi 
you to take ; and it is that refusal I look for.” - 

“Ah!” said D’Artagnan. “ Next, sire?” 

“The money being refused, you will go and seek it at M. Colbert’s. 
propos, have you a good horse ?” 

“ An excellent one, sire.” 

“ How much did it cost you ?” 

“A hundred and fifty pistoles.” f 

“T will buy it of you. “Here is a note for two hundred pistoles.” ( 

“ But I want my horse for my journey, sire.” 

“Well !” | 

“Well, and you take mine from me.” i = 

- “Not at all. On the contrary, I give it you. Only as t is now ni 1e 
and not yours, Iam sure you will not spare it.” | 

“Your majesty is in a hurry then ?” j 

“ A great hurry.” 

“Then what compels me to wait two days ?” 

“Reasons known to myself.” 

“ That's a different affair. The horse may make up the two days, | in 
the eight he has to do; and then there is the post.” | 

““No, no, the post compromises, Monsieur d’Artagnan. Begone, and ¢ lo 
not forget you are mine.” 

“Sire, it was not I who ever forgot it. At what hour to-morrow shall. I 
take my leave of your majesty ?” 

“Where do you lodge ?” 

**T must henceforward lodge at the Louvre.” 

“That must not be now—keep your lodgings in the city, I will pay for 
them. As to your departure, it must take place at night ; you must set 
out without being seen by any one, or, if you are seen, it must not be 
known that you belong to me. A close mouth, monsieur.” 

“Your majesty spoils all you have said by that single word.” 

“I asked you where you lodged, for I cannot always send to M. le comte 


de la Fére to seek you.” 
‘I lodge with M. Planchet, a grocer, Rue des Lombards, at the sign of 


the Pilon d’Or.” 
“Go out but little, show yourself still less, and await my orders.” 


“ And yet, sire, I must go for the money.” . 
“That is true ; but, when going to the surintendance, where so many 


people are constantly going, you must mingle with the crowd.” 


THE KING. 


243 


“T want the notes, sire, for the money.” 

“ Here they are.” The king signed them, and D’Artagnan looked on to 
sure himself of the regularity. 

“ That is money,” said he, “‘and money is either read or counted.” 
“Adieu ! Monsieur d’Artagnan,” added the king ; “I think you have 
rfectly understood me.” 

“TI! I understood that your majesty sends me to Belle-Isle-en-Mer, 
at is all.” 

“To learn ?” 

“ To learn how M. Fouquet’s works are going on ; that is all.” 

“Very well : I admit you may be taken.” 

“And I do not admit it,” replied the Gascon boldly. 

“I admit that you may be killed,” continued the king. 

“‘ That is not probable, sire.” 

“Tn the first case, you must not speak ; in the second, there must be no 
per found upon you to speak.” 

D’Artagnan shrugged his shoulders without ceremony, and took leave 
the king, saying to himself :—‘‘ The English shower continues—let us 
ain under the spout !” 


CHAPTER LIV. 
THE HOUSES OF M. FOUQUET. 


WHILST D’Artagnan was returning to Planchet’s house, his head aching 
and bewildered with all that had happened to him, there was passing a 
scene of quite a different characte:, and which, nevertheless, is not foreign 
to the conversation our musketeer had just had with the king ; only 
this scene took place out of Paris, in a house possessed by the surinten- 
dant Fouquet in the village of Saint-Mandé. The minister had just arrived 
at this country-house, followed by his principal clerk, who carried an enor- 
mous portfolio full of papers to be examined, and others waiting for sig- 
nature. As it might be about five o’clock in the afternoon, the masters 
had dined : supper was being prepared for twenty subaltern guests. The 
surintendant did not stop: on alighting from his carriage, he, at the same 
bound, sprang through the doorway, traversed the apartments and gained 
his cabinet, where he declared he would shut himself up to work, com- 
manding that he should not be disturbed for anything but an order from 
the king. As soon as this order was given, Fouquet shut himself up, and 
two footmen were placed as sentinels at his door. Then Fouquet pushed 
a bolt which displaced a panel that walled up the entrance, and prevented 
everything that passed in this apartment from being either seen or heard. 
But, against all probability, it was only for the sake of shutting himself up 
that Fouquet shut himself up thus, for he went straight to a bureau, seated 
himself at it, opened the portfolio, and began to make a choice in the 
enormous mass of papers it c tained. It was not more than ten minutes 
after he had entered, and taken all the precautions we have described, 
when the repeated noise of several slight equal strokes struck his ear, and 
appeared to fix all his attention. Fouquet raised his head, turned his ear, 
.and listened. 

The little strokes continued. Then the worker arose witha slight move- 

ent of impatience and walked straight up to a glass behind which the 
blows were struck by a hand, or by some invisible mechanism. It was a 
large glass let ‘nto a p, .el. Three other glasses, exactly er to it, com- 

10—72 


244 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


pleted the symmetry of the apartment. Nothing distinguished that fro 
the others. Without doubt, these reiterated little strokes were a signal 
for, at the moment Fouquet approached the glass listening, the same nol 
was renewed, and in the same measure. “Oh! oh!” murmured th 
zntendant, with surprise, “ who is yonder? I did not expect anybody to 
day.” And, without doubt, to respond to that signal, he pulled a gilde 
nail in that same glass, and shook it thrice. Then returning to his plac 
and seating himself again—“ 7a for! Let them wait,” said he. An 
plunging again into the ocean of papers unrolled before him, he appeare 
to think of nothing any longer but work. In fact, with incredible rapidi 

~and marvellous lucidity, Fouquet deciphered the largest papers, and mo 
complicated writings, correcting them, annotating them with a pen mov 
as if by a fever ; and the work melting under his hands, signatures, figure 
references, became multiplied as if ten clerks—that is to say, a hundr 
fingers and ten brains—had performed the duties, instead of the five finge 
and single brain of this man. From time to time only, Fouquet, absorb 
by his work, raised his head to cast a furtive glance upon a clock place 
before him. The reason for this was, Fouquet set himself a task, and wh 
this task was once set, in one hour’s work he, by himself, did what anot 
would not have accomplished in a.day ; always certain, consequently,¢ 
vided he was not disturbed, to arrive at the end in the time his devour | 
activity had fixed. But in the midst of his ardent labour, the dry strokes 
upon the little bell, placed behind the glass, sounded again once more, 
hasty, and, consequently, more urgent. 

“The lady appears to begin to be impatient,” said Fouquet. “ Humph! 
acalm! That must be the comtesse; but no, the comtesse is gone to 
Rambouillet for three days. The présidente, then? Oh! no, the prési- 
dente would not assume such grand airs ; she would ring very humbly, 
then she would wait my good pleasure. The clearest of all is, that I may 
not know who it can be, but that I know who it cannot be. And since it 
1s not you, marquise, since it cannot be you, deuce take the rest!” And 
ne went on with his work in spite of the reiterated appeals of the bell. At 
the end of a quarter of an hour, however, impatience prevailed over 
Fouquet in his turn: he might be said to burn, rather than to complete 
the rest of his work ; he thrust his papers into his portfolio, and giving a 
glance at the mirror, whilst the taps continued to be faster than ever. 
“Oh! oh !” said he, “ whence comes all this racket ? What has happened, 
and who can the Ariadne be who expects meso impatiently ? Let us see !” 

He then applied the tip of his finger to the nail parallel to the one he 
had drawn. Immediately the glass moved like the fold of a door and dis- 
covered asecret closet, rather deep, in which the surintendant disappeared 
as if going into a vast box. When there, he touched another spring, which 
opened not a board, but a block of the wall, and he went out by that 
opening, leaving the door to shut of itself Then Fouquet descended 
about a score steps which sank, winding, underground, and came to along, 
paved, subterranean passage, lighted by imperceptible loop-holes. The 
walls of this vault were covered with sl bs, »r tiles, and the floor with car- 
peting. This passage was under the street itself which separated Fouquet’s 
house from the Park of Vincennes. At the end of the passage ascended a 
winding staircase parallel with that by which Fouquet had entered. He 
mounted these other stairs, entered by means of a spring placed ina. 
closet similar to that in his cabinet, and from this closet into a chanted 
perfectly empty, although furnished with the utmost elegance. As soon) 
as he entered, he examined carefully whether the glass ciosed withou’ 


{ 
{ 


LHE HOUSES OF M. FOUQUET. 245 


ving any trace, and, doubtless, satisfie¢ with his observation, he opened 
‘means of a small gold key, the triple fastenings of a door in front of 
. This time the door opened upon a handsome cabinet, sumptuously 
. sished, in which was seated upon cushions, a lady of surpassing beauty, 
p, at the sound of the lock, sprang towards Fouquet. “Ah! good 
avens !” cried the latter, starting back with astonishment. ‘“ Madame 
Marquise de Belliére, you here ?” 

‘ Yes,” murmured la marquise. “ Yes ; it is I, monsieur.” 

‘Marquise ! ! dear marquise !” added Fouquet, ready to prestialy him- 
f. “Ah! my God! how did you come here? and I, to keep you 
iting !” 

at Jong time, monsieur ; yes, a very long time !” 

MT am “happy in thinking this waiting has appeared long to you, 
urquise !” 

“Oh! an eternity, monsieur; oh! I rang more than twenty times. Did 
u not hear me ?” 

‘‘Marquise, you are pale, you tremble.” 

Did you not hear, then, that you were summoned ?” 

Oh, yes; I heard plainly enough, madame; but I could not come, 
“your rigour and your refusal, how could I dream it was your? If I 
_vuld have had any suspicion of the happiness that awaited me, believe 
me’ madame, I would have quitted everything to fall at your feet, as I do 
at this moment.” 

‘“‘ Are we quite alone, monsieur ?” asked the marquise, looking round the 
room. 

““Oh, yes, madame, I can assure you of that.” 

“Really ?” said the marquise, in a melancholy tone. 

“ You sigh,” said Fouquet. 

“ What mysteries ! ! what precautions ! !” said the marquise, with a slight 
bitterness of expression; “and how evident it is that you fear the least 
suspicion of your amours to escape.” 

“Would you prefer their being made public: r 

“Oh, no ; you act like a delicate man,” said the marquise, smiling. 

i. Come, dear marquise, punish me. not with reproaches, I implore you.” 

“Reproaches! Have I a right to make you any ?” 

“ No, unfortunately, no ; but. tell me, you, who during a year I have 
loved without return or hope——” 

“You are mistaken—without hope it is true, but not without return.” 
_“What! for me, to my love! there is but one proof, and that proof I 
still want.” 

“T am come to bring it to you, monsieur.” 

Fouquet wished to clasp her in his arms, but she disengaged herself 
with a gesture. 

_ You persist in deceiving yourself, monsieur, and never will accept of 

e the only thing I am willing: to give you—dev otiun.” 

“Ah, then, you do nog love me? Devotion is but a virtue, love is a 
passion.’ 

: “Listen to me, I implore you: I should not have come hither without 
a serious motive : you are well assured of that, are you not?” 

“The motive is of rey little consequence, so that you are but here—so 

at I see you—so that I speak to you !” 

“You are right ; the principal thing is that I am here without any one 

aving seen me, and that I can speak to you.” Fouquet sank on hisknees 
efore her. “ Speak ! speak, madame !” said he, “I listen to you.” 


See 


246 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


The marquise looked at Fouquet, on his knees at her feet, and there w 
in the looks of the womana strange mixture of love and melancholy. 
“Oh !” at length murmured she, “would that I were she who has t 
right of seeing you every minute, of speaking to you every instant ! woto 
that I were she who might watch over you, she who would have no ne: 
of mysterious springs to summon and cause to appear, like a sylph, t 
man she loves, to look at him for an hour, and then see him disappear 
the darkness of a mystery, still more strange at his going out than it h 
been at his coming in. Oh! that would be to bea happy woman !” 
“Do you happen, marquise,” said F ouquet, smiling, “to be speakir 
of my wife ?” 
“Yes, certainly, of her I spoke.” 
“Well, you need not envy her lot, marquise ; of all the women wi 
whom I am in relation, Madame Fouquet is the one I see the least of, a 
who has the least intercourse with me.” 


pain of breaking off for ever your connexions with her, as you have f,0% 
bidden all who have come here before me, and all who shall come af;er 
\ 


“Dear marquise, how unjust you are, and how little do you know what 
you are doing in thus exclaiming against mystery ; it is with mystery 
alone we can love without trouble ; it is with love without trouble alone 
that we can be happy. But let us return to ourselves, to that devotion of 
which you were speaking, or rather let me labour under a pleasing delusion, 
and believe that this devotion is love.” 

“Just now,” repeated the marquise, passing over her eyes a hand that 
might have been a model for the graceful contours of antiquity ; “just now 
I was prepared to speak, my ideas were clear, bold, now I am quite con- 
fused, quite troubled ; I fear I bring you bad news.” 

“If it is to that bad news I owe your presence, marquise, welcome be 
that bad news! or rather, marquise, since you allow that I am not quite 
indifferent to you, let me hear nothing of the bad news, but speak of your- 
self.” 

“No, no, on the contrary, demand it of me ; require me to tell it to you 
instantly, and not to allow myself to be turned aside by any feeling what- 
ever. Fouquet, my friend! it is of immense importance !” 

“You astonish me, marquise : I will even Say you almost frighten me. 


You, so serious, so collected ; you who know the world we live in so well. 
Is it then important ?” 


“Oh! very important.” | 


“In the first place, how did you come here ?” C 


i 
ss You shall know that presently ; but first to something of more consi 
quence. 


" Speak, marquise, speak! I implore you, have pity on my impatience. j 
“Do you know that Colbert is made intendant of the finances ?” 
“Bah ! Colbert, little Colbert.” 
“Yes, Colbert, little Colbert.” : | 
“ Mazarin’s factotum ??——“ The same.” 

_ “Well! what do you see so terrific in that, dear marquise ? little Colber 

1s intendant : that is astonishing, I confess, but is not terrific.” 


THE HOUSES OF M. FOUQUET. 247 


“To you think the king has given, without a pressing motive, such a 
lace to one you call a little cazstre 2” 

“Tn the first place, is it positively true that the king has given it to him ?” 
“Tt is so said.” 

*¢ Ay, but who says so?” 

“ Everybody.” 

“Everybody, that’s nobody: mention some one likely to be well in- 
rmed who says so.” 

** Madame Vanel.” 

“ Ah! now you begin to frighten me in earnest,” said Fouquet, laugh- 
ng ; “if any one is well informed, or ought to be well informed, it is the 
erson you name.” 

“ Do not speak ill of poor Marguerite, Monsieur Fouquet, for she still 
oves you.” 

“Bah! indeed. That is scarcely credible. I thought little Colbert, as 
ou said just now, had passed over that love, and left the impression upon 
t of a spot of ink or a stain of grease.” 

“Fouquet! Fouquet! Is this the way you always are for the poor 
men you desert ?” 

Why, you surely are not going to undertake the defence of Madame 
anel ?” 

'“ Ves, I will undertake it; for, 1 repeat, she loves you still, and the 
‘proof is she saves you.” 

“By your interposition, marquise ; that is very cunning on her part. 
No angel could be more agreeable to me, or could lead me more certainly 
to salvation. But, let me ask you, do you know Marguerite ?” 

“She was my convent friend.” 

“And you say that she has informed you that Monsieur Colbert was 
named intendant ?” 

“Yes, she did.” 

“Well, enlighten me, marquise ; granted Monsieur Colbert is inten- 
dant, so be it. In what can an intendant, that is to say, my subordinate, 
my clerk, give me umbrage or injure me, even were he Monsieur Colbert!” 

“ You do not reflect, monsieur, apparently,” replied the marquise. 

“Upon what ?” “This : that Monsieur Colbert hates you.” 

“Hates me!” cried Fouquet. - “ Good heavens! marquise, whence do 
you come? where can you live! Hates me! why all the world hates me, 
he as others do.” 

‘He more than others.” 

“ More than others—let him.” 

“ He is ambitious.” 

** Who is not, marquise ?” 

“Ves, but with him ambition has no bounds.” 

“IT am quite aware of that, since he made it a point to succeed me with 
Madame Vanel.” 

“ And obtained his end : look to that.” 

“To you mean to say he has the presumption to hope to pass from 
intendant to surintendant ?” 

“ Have you not yourself already had the same fear ?” 

“Oh! oh!” said Fouquet, “to succeed with Madame Vanel is one 
thing, to succeed me with the king is another. France is not to be pur 
chased so easily as the wife of a maitre des comptes.” 

Ge Eh! monsieur, everything is to be bought; if not by gold, by in- 
trigue. 


248 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“ Nobody knows to the contrary better than you, madame, you to who 
I have offered millions.” 

“Instead of millions, Fouquet, you should have offered me a true, only, 
and boundless love: I might have accepted that. So you see still, every- 
thing is to be bought, if not in one way, by another.” 

“So Colbert, in your opinion, is in a fair way of bargaining for my place 
of surintendant. Make yourself easy on that head, my dear marquise, h 
is not yet rich enough to purchase it.” 

‘But if he should rob you of it >” 

“Ah! that is another thing. Unfortunately, before he can reach me 
that is to say, the body of the place, he must destroy, must make a breac 
in the advanced works, and I am devilishly well fortified, marquise.” 

“What you call your advanced works are your creatures, are they not 
your friends ?” 

Exactly so,” 

“And is M. d’Eymeris one of your creatures ?” 

= Yes, he is.” 

“Ts M. Lyodot one of your friends ?” 

“Certainly.” 

‘“* M. de Vanin ?” ; 

: M. de Vanin! ah! they may do what they like with him, but—-—” 

But——” 

“ But they must not touch the others.” | 

“Well, if you are anxious they should not touch MM. d’Eymeris and 
Lyodot, it is time to look about you.” 

“Who threatens them?” / 

“Will you listen to me now ?” 

“ Attentively, marquise.” 

Without interrupting me ?’?——“ Speak.” 

“Well, this morning Marguerite sent for me.” 

“And what did she want with you?” 

“1 dare not see M. Fouquet myself,’ said she.” 

“Bah! why should she think I would reproach her? Poor woman, she 
vastly deceives herself.” 

«See him yourself,’ said she, ‘and tell him to beware of M. Colbert.” 

“What ! she warned me to beware of her lover ?” | 

“I have told you she still loves you.” 

‘Go on, marquise.” 

“*M. Colbert,’ she added, ‘came to me two hours ago, to inform me he 
was appointed intendant,’” 

“I have already told you, marquise, that M. Colbert would only be the 
more in my power for that.” 

“Yes, but that is not all; Marguerite is intimate, as you know, with 
Madame d’Eymeris and Madame Lyodot.” 

“ T know she is.” 

“Well, M. Colbert put many questions to her relative to the fortunes 
of those two gentlemen, and as to the devotion they had for you.” 

“Oh, as to those two, I can answer for them ; they must be killed before 
they can cease to be mine.” 

“Then, as Madame Vanel was obliged to quit M. Colbert for an instant 
to receive a visitor, and as M. Colbert is industrious, scarcely was the new 
intendant left alone, before he took a pencil from his pocket, and, as there 
was paper on the table, began to make pencil notes.” 

“Notes concerning D’Eymeris and Lyodot ?” 


{ 
t 


~ 


THE HOUSES OF M. FOUQUET. 249 


“Exactly.” —-——“ I should like to know what those notes were about.” 
“ And that is just what I have brought you.” 

“Madame Vanel has taken Colbert’s notes and sent them to me ?” 

“ No; but by a chance which resembles a miracle, she has a duplicate 
lof those notes.” 

“How could she get that ?” 

“ Listen : I told you that Colbert found some paper on the table.” 

cc Ves.” 

“ That he had taken a pencil from his pocket.” 
** And had written upon that paper.”———“ Yes.” 

“Well, this pencil was a lead pencil, consequently hard ; so, it marked 
in black upon the first sheet, and in white upon the second.” 

co on,” 

“ Colbert, when tearing off the first sheet, took no notice of the second.” 
“Well ?” 

“Well, on the second was to be read what had been written on the first ; 
adame Vanel read it, and sent for me.” ———“ Ay, ay ?” 

“ Then, when she was assured I was your devoted friend, she gave me 
e paper, and told me the secret of that house.” 

“And this paper?” said Fouquet, in some degree of agitation. 

“ Here it is, monsieur—read it,” said the marquise. Fouquet read :— 
Names of the farmers of the revenue to be condemned by the Chamber 
of Justice: D’Eymeris, friend of M. F.; Lyodot, friend of M. F.; De 
PV anin, indif.” 

“D’Eymeris and Lyodot!” cried Fouquet, reading the paper eagerly 
again. 

°« Friends of M. F.,” pointed the marquise with her finger. 

“But what is the meaning of these words: ‘To be condemned by the 
Chamber of Justice?” 

* Dame !” said the marquise, “that is clear enough, I think. Besides, 
that is not all. Read on, read on ;” and Fouquet continued:—“ The two 
first to death, the third to be dismissed, with MM. d’Hautemont and dela 

-Valette, who will only have their property confiscated.” 

“ Great God !” cried Fouquet, “to death, to death! Lyodot and D’Ey- 
meris. But even if the Chamber of Justice should condemn them to 
death, the king will never ratify their condemnation, and they cannot be 

executed without the king’s signature.” 

“The king has made M. Colbert intendant.” 

“Oh !” cried Fouquet, as if he caught a glimpse of a yawning abyss be- 
neath his feet, “impossible! impossible! But who passed a pencil over 
the marks made by Colbert ?” 

“JT did. I was afraid the first would be effaced.” 

“Oh ! I will know all.” 

“ You will know nothing, monsieur ; you despise your enemy too much 
for that.” 

“Pardon me, my dear marquise; excuse me; yes, M. Colbert is my 
enemy, I believe him to be so; yes, M. Colbert is a man to be dreaded, I 
admit, But I! I have time, and as you are here, as you have assured me 
of your devotion, as you have allowed me to hope for your love, as we 
are alone 

“ I came here to save you, M. Fouquet, and not to ruin myself,” said the 
marquise, rising,—“ therefore, beware ! 

“ Marquise, in truth you terrify yourself too much, at least, unless this 
terror is but a pretext 


66 Yes.” 


250 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“He has a deep heart, that M. Colbert : beware !"——Fouquet, in hi 
turn, drew himself up. “ And I ?” asked he. 

“ And you, you have only a noble heart. Beware ! beware !” 

6 So p? 

“T have done what I ought, my friend, at the risk of my reputation 
Adieu !” 

“Not adieu, au revoir.” 

“ Perhaps,” said the marquise, giving her hand to Fouquet to kiss, and 
walking towards the door, with so firm a step, that he did not dare to ba 
her passage. As to Fouquet, he retook, with his head hanging down, 
and a cloud over his brow, the path of the subterranean passage along 
which ran the metal wires that communicated from one house to the 
other, transmitting, through two glasses, the wishes and signals of two 
correspondents. 


—— + 


CHAPTER “ve 
THE ABBE FOUQUET. 


FOuQUET hastened back to his apartment by the subterranean passag 
and immediately closed the mirror with the spring. He was scarcely i3 
his closet, when he heard some one knocking violently at the door, and 
well-known voice crying,—“ Open the door, monseigneur, I entreat yo 
open the door!” Fouquet quickly restored a little order to everythin§ 
which might reveal either his absence or his agitation ; he spread his paper 
over the desk, took up a pen, and, to gain time, said, through the closed 
door,—“ Who are you ?” 

‘What, monseigneur, do you not know me ?” replied the voice. 

“Yes, yes,” said Fouquet to himself, “yes, my friend, I know you well 
enough.” And then aloud: “Is it not Gourville ?” 

“Why, yes, monseigneur.” 

Fouquet arose, cast a last look at one of his glasses, went to the door, 
pushed the bolt, and Gourville entered. “Ah, monseigneur! monseigneur !” 
cried he, “ what cruelty !” 

“In what ?” 

“T have been a quarter of an hour imploring you to open the door, and 
you would not even answer me.” 

“Once for all, you know that I will not be disturbed when I am busy. 
Now, although I might make you an exception, Gourville, I insist upon 
my orders being respected by others.” 

“ Monseigneur, at this moment, orders, doors, bolts, locks, and walls, I 
tould have broken, overthrown, and split them all !” 

“Ah! ah! it relates to some great event, then ?” asked Fouquet. 

‘‘ Oh ! I assure you it does, monseigneur,” replied Gourville. 

“ And what is this event ?” said Fouquet, a little troubled by the evident 
agitation of his most intimate confidant. 

“ There is a secret chamber of justice instituted, monseigneur.” 

“I know there is, but do the members meet, Gourville ?” 

“They not only meet, but they have passed a sentence, monseigneur.” 

“ A sentence?” said the surintendant, with a shudder and pallor he could 
not conceal. “A sentence !—and against whom ?” 

“ Against two of your friends.” 

c igo and D’Eymeris, do you mean? But what sort of a sen- 
tence! 


4 


THE ABBE FOUQUET. 251 


“Sentence of death.” | 

“Passed? Oh! you must be mistaken, Gourville ; that is impossible.” 

“ Here is a copy of the sentence which the king is to sign to-day, if he has 
not already signed it.” 

Fouquet seized the paper eagerly, read it, and returned it to Gourville. 

“The king will never sign that,” said he. Gourville shook his head. 

“ Monseigneur, M. Colbert is a bold councillor, do not trust to that.” 

“* Monsieur Colbert again !” cried Fouquet. ‘“‘ How is it that that name 
rises upon all occasions to torment my ears, during the last two or three 
days? You make so trifling a subject of too much importance, Gour- 
ville. Let M. Colbert appear, I will face him ; let him raise his head, and 
I will crush him ; but you understand, there must be an asperity upon 
which my look may fall, there must be a surface upon which my feet may 
be placed.” 

“ Patience, monseigneur ; for you do not know what Colbert is—study 
him quickly ; it is with this dark financier as it is with meteors, which the 
eye never sees completely before their disastrous invasion ; when we feel 
them we are dead.” _ 

“Oh! Gourville, that is going too far,” replied Fouquet, smiling; “ allow 

e, my friend, not to be so easily frightened ; M. Colbert a meteor! Cordeu, 

P ve confront the meteor. Let us see acts, and not words. What has he 
(done ?” 

“He has ordered two gibbets of the executioner of Paris,” answered 
Gourville. 

Fouquet raised his head, and a flash seemed to strike his eyes. “Are you 
sure of what you say ?” cried he. 

“ Here is the proof, monseigneur.” - And Gourville held out to the surin- 
tendant a note communicated by one of the secretaries of the Hotel de Ville, 
who was one of Fouquet’s creatures. 

“Yes, that is true,” murmured the minister ; “ the scaffold may be pre- 
pared, but the king has not signed ; Gourville, the king will not sign.” 

“J will soon know,” said Gourville. 

“ How?” 

“ Ifthe king has signed, the gibbets will be sent this evening to the Hotel 
de Ville, in order to be got up and ready by to-morrow morning.” 

“Oh! no, no!” cried the surintendant, once again; “ you are all de- 
ceived, and deceive me in my turn ; Lyodot came to see me only the day 
before yesterday ; only three days ago I received a present of some Syracuse 
wine from poor D’Eymeris.” 

“ What does that prove ?” replied Gourville, “except that the chamber 
of justice has been secretly assembled, has deliberated in the absence of 
the accused, and that the whole proceeding was complete when they were 
arrested.” 

“What ! are they then arrested ?” 

“No doubt they are.” 

“But where, when, how have they been arrested ?” 

“ Lyodot, yesterday, at daybreak; D’Eymeris, the day before yester- 
day, in the evening, as he was returning from the house of his mistress : 
their disappearance had disturbed nobody ; but at length M. Colbert, all 
at once raised the mask, and caused the affair to be published ; it is being 
cried by sound of trumpet, at this moment, in Paris, and, in truth, monseig- 
neur, thereis scarcely anybody but yourself ignorant of the event.”’ Fouquet 
began to walk about his chamber with an uneasiness that became more 
and more serious. 


252 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“What do you decide upon, monseigneur ?” said Gourville. 

“Tf it really were as you say, I would go to the king,” cried Fouquet. 
* But as I go to the Louvre, I will pass by the Hotel de Ville. We shall 
see if the sentence is signed.” 

“ Incredulity ! thou art the pest of all great minds,” said Gourville, shrug- 
ging his shoulders. 

“ Gourville.” 

“Yes,” continued he, “and incredulity! thou ruinest them, as contagio 
destroys the most robust health ; that is to say, in an instant.” j 

“Let us go,” cried Fouquet ; “desire the door to be opened, Gour- 
ville.” 

“Be cautious,” said the latter, “the Abbé de Fouquet is there.” 

“Ah ! my brother,” replied Fouquet, in a tone of annoyance; “he is 
there, is he? he knows all the ill news, then, and is rejoiced to bring it to 
me, as usual. The devil! if my brother is there, my affairs are bad, Gour- 
ville ; why did you not tell me that sooner, I should have been the more 
readily convinced.” 

“ Monseigneur calumniates him,” said Gourville, laughing ; “if he is 
come, it is not with a bad intention.” | 

“What, do you excuse him?” cried Fouquet ; “a fellow without a heart, 
without ideas ; a devourer of wealth.” 

“ He knows you are rich.” 

* And would ruin me.” 

* No, but he would like to have your purse. That is all.” 

“Enough ! enough! A hundred thousand crowns per month, during 
two years. Corbleu/! it is I that pay, Gourville, and I know my figures.” 
Gourville laughed in a silent, sly manner. ‘‘ Yes, yes, you mean to say 
it is the king pays,” said the surintendant. “Ah, Gourville, that is a vile 
joke ; this is not the place.” 

“Monseigneur, do not be angry.” 

“Well, then, send away the Abbé Fouquet, I have not asou.” Gour- 
ville made a step towards the door. ‘‘ He has beena month without seeing 
me,” continued Fouquet, “why could he not be two months ?” 

“Because he repents of living in bad company,” said Gourville, 
prefers you to all his bandits.” : 

“Thanks for the preference ! You make a strange advocate, Gourville, 
to-day—the advocate of the Abbé Fouquet !” 

“Eh! but everything and every man has a good side—their useful side, 
monseigneur.” 

“The bandits whom the abbé keeps in pay and drink have their useful 
side, have they? Prove that, if you please.” 

“ Let the circumstance arise, monseigneur, and you will be very glad to 
have these bandits under your hand.” 

“You advise me, then, to be reconciled to the abbé?” said Fouquet, 
ironically. 

“T advise you, monseigneur, not to quarrel with a hundred or a hundred 
and twenty loose fellows, who, by putting their rapiers end to end, would 
form a cordon of steel capable of surrounding three thousand men.” 

Fouquet darted a searching glance at Gourville, and passing before him, 
—“ That is all very well ; let M. Abbé Fouquet be introduced,” said he 
to the footman. “You are right, Gourville.” Two minutes after, the 
Abbé Fouquet appeared in the doorway, with profound reverences. He 
was a man of from: forty to forty-five years of age, half churchman, half 
soldier,—a sfadassin grafted upon an abbé ; upon seeing that he had not 


“and 


THE ABBE FOUQUET.- 253 


a sword by his side, you might be sure he had pistols. Fouquet saluted 
him more as an elder brother than as a minister. 

“ What can I do to serve you, monsieur l’abbé ?” said he. 

“Oh! oh! how you speak that to me, brother !” 

“T speak it like a man who is in a hurry, monsieur.” 

The abbé looked maliciously at Gourville, and anxiously at Fouquet, and 
said, “I have three hundred pistoles to pay to M. de Bregi this evening. 
A play debt, a sacred debt.” 

“Next,” said Fouquet bravely, for he comprehended that the Abbé 
Fouquet would not have disturbed him for such a want. 

“‘ A thousand to my butcher, who will supply no more.” 

Nex be: 

“Twelve hundred to my tailor,” continued the abbé; “the fellow has 
made me take back seven suits of my people’s, which compromises my 
liveries, and my mistress talks of replacing me by a farmer of the revenue, 
which would be a humiliation for the church.” 

** What else is there ?” said Fouquet. 

“You will please to remark,’ said the abbé humbly, “that I have asked 
othing for myself.” 
“That is delicate, monsieur,” replied Fouquet ; “so, as you see, I wait.” 
' “And I ask nothing, oh! no,—it is not for want of need, though, I 
lassure you.” 
_, The minister reflected a minute. “Twelve hundred pistoles to the 
tailor ; that seems a great deal for clothes,” said he. 

“I maintain a hundred men,” said the abbé proudly ; “that isa charge, 
I believe.” 

“Why a hundred men?” said Fouquet. “Are you a Richelieu or a 
Mazarin, to require a hundred men as a guard? What use do you make 
of these hundred men ?—speak—say.” 

“ And do you ask me.that?” cried the Abb’ Fouquet ; “‘ah! how can 
you put such a question,—why I maintain a hundred men? Ah !” 

“Why, yes, I do put that question to you. What have you to do with 
a hundred men ?—answer.” 

“‘Ingrate !” continued the abbé, more and more affected. 

“Explain yourself.” 

“Why, monsieur the surintendant, I only want one valet-de-chamb6re, 
for my part, and even if I were alone, could help myself very well; but 
you, you who have so many enemies—a hundred men are not enough for 
me to defend you with. A hundred men !—you ought to have ten thou- 
sand. I maintain, then, these men in order that in public places, in 
assemblies, no voice may be raised against you; and without them, mon- 
sieur, you would be loaded with imprecations, you would be torn to pieces, 
you would not last a week, no, not a week ; do you understand ?” 

“Ah! I did not know you were my champion to such an extent, mon- 
sieur ’abbé.” 

“You doubt it !” cried the abbé. “ Listen, then, to what happened, not 
eg ago than yesterday, Rue de la Hochette. A man was cheapening a 
owl. 

“Well, how could that injure me, abbé ?” 

“This way. The fowl was not fat. The purchaser refused to give 
eighteen sous for it, saying that he could not afford eighteen sous for the 
skin of a fowl, of which M. Fouquet had had all the fat ?” 

“ Go on.” 

“ The joke caused a deal of laughter,” continued the abbé; “ laughter 


254 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


at your expense, death to all the devils ! and the camazlle were delighted, 
The joker added, ‘Give me a fowl fed by M. Colbert, if you like, and I 
will pay all you ask.’ And immediately there was a clapping of hands. A |, 
frightful scandal! you understand ; a scandal which forces a brother to |, 
hide his face.” | 
' Fouquet coloured. “And you veiled it?” said the surintendant. 

“No, for it so happened I had one of my men in the crowd ; a new re- 
cruit from the provinces, one M. de Menneville, whom I like very much. 
He made his way through the press, saying to the joker: ‘A/zlle barbes ! 
Monsieur the false joker; here’s a thrust for Colbert ! ‘And one for 
Fouquet, replied the joker. Upon which they drew, in front of the cook’s 
shop, with a hedge of the curious round them, and five hundred as curious 
at the windows.” 

“ Well ?” said Fouquet. 5 

“Well, monsieur, my Menneville spitted the joker, to the great astonish- 
ment of the spectators, and said to the cook: ‘Take this goose, my 
friend, it is fatter than your fowl.’ That is the way, monsieur,” ended the / 
abbé triumphantly, “in which I spend my revenues ; I maintain the if 
Eonour of the family, monsieur.” Fouquet hung his head. “And I have 
a hundred as good as he,” continued the abbé. . 

“Very well,” said Fouquet, “ give the account to Gourville, and remaiij} 
here this evening.” \ 

“Shall we have supper ?” 

“Yes, there will be supper.” 

“* But the chest is closed.” 

“Gourville will open it for you. Leave us, monsieur l’abbé, leave us.” 

“Then we are friends,” said the abbé, with a bow. 

* Oh yes, friends. Come, Gourville.” 

‘Are you going out? You will not sup, then ?” 

“‘T shall be back in an hour; be contented, abbé.” Then, aside to 
Gourville—“ Let them put to my English horses,” said he, “and direct 
the coachman to stop at the Hétel de Ville de Paris.” 


CHAPTER REV. 
THE WINE OF M. DE LA FONTAINE. 


CARRIAGES were already bringing the guests of Fouquet to Saint-Mandé; 
already the whole house was getting warm with the preparations for supper, 
when the surintendant launched his fleet horses upon the road to Paris, 
and going by the quays in order to meet with fewer people on his route, 
reached the Hotel de Ville. It wanted a quarter to eight. Fouquet alighted 
at the corner of the Rue de Long-pont, and, on foot, directed his course 
towards the Place de Gréve, accompanied by Gourville. At the turning 
of the Place, they saw a man dressed in black and violet, of good mien, 
who was preparing to get into a hired carriage, and told the coachman to 
stop at Vincennes. He had before hima large hamper filled with bottles, 
which he had just purchased at the cabaret with the sign of “ L’Image-de- 
Notre-Dame.” : 

“Eh! but that is Vatel! my mattre dhétel /” said Fouquet to Gourville, 
_ “Yes, monseigneur,” replied the latter. 

“What can he have been doing at the sign of L’Image-de-Nétre 
Dame ?” : 

“ Buying wine, no doubt.” 


THE WINE OF M. DE LA FONTAINE. 255 


“What ! buy wine for me, at a cabaret !” said Fouquet. “ My cellar then 
must be in a miserable condition !” and he advanced towards the maitre 
ad hétel, who was arranging his bottles in the carriage, with the most minute 
care. 

““ Hold / Vatel,” said he, in the voice of a master. 

“Take care, monseigneur !” said Gourville, “ you will be recognised.” 

“Very well! Of what consequence ?—Vatel !” The man dressed in 
black and violet turned round. He had a good and mild countenance, 
without expression—a mathematician, less the pride. A certain fire 
sparkled in the eyes of this personage, a smile rather sly played round 
his lips ; but the observer might soon have remarked that this fire and 
this smile applied to nothing, enlightened nothing. Vatel laughed like an 
absent man, and amused himselflike a child. At the sound of his master’s 
voice, he turned round, exclaiming : “ Oh! monseigneur !” 

“Ves, itis I. What the devil are you doing here, Vatel ! Wine! You 
are buying wine at a cadaret in the Place de Gréve !” 

“ But, monseigneur,” said Vatel, quietly, after having darted a hostile 
lance at Gourville, “‘ why am I interfered with here? Is my cellar kept 
in bad order ?” 
“No, certes, Vatel, no ; but-——’ 
“But what?” replied Vatel. Gourville touched the elbow of Fouquet. 
“Don’t be angry, Vatel; I thought my cellar—your cellar—sufficiently 
well stocked for us to be able to dispense with having recourse to the 
cellar of L’Image-de-Ndétre-Dame.” 

“Eh, monsieur,” said Vatel, sinking from monseigneur to monsieur with 
a degree of disdain ; “your cellar is so well stocked that when certain of 
your guests dine with you they have nothing to drink.” 

Fouquet, in great surprise, looked at Gourville. ‘ What do you mean 
by that ?” 

“TI mean that your butler had not wines for all tastes, monsieur ; and 
that M. de la Fontaine, M. Pellisson, and M. Conrard, do not drink when 
they come to the house—those messieurs do not like strong wine. What 
is to be done then ?” 

“Well, and so ?” 

“ Well, then, I have found here a viz de Joigny, which they like. I know 
they come once a week to drink at the Image-de-Nétre-Dame. That is 
the reason why I make this provision.” 

Fouquet had no more to say, he was almost affected. Vatel, on his part, 
had much more to say, without doubt, and it was plain he was getting 
warm. “It is just as if you would reproach me, monseigneur, for going to 
the Rue Planche Milbray, to fetch, myself, the cider M. Loret drinks when 
he comes to dine at your house.” 

“ Loret drinks cider at my house !” cried Fouquet laughing. 

* Certainly he does, monsieur, and that is the reason why he dines there 
with pleasure.” 

“Vatel,” cried Fouquet, pressing the hand of his maitre @hétel, “you 
are aman! I thank you, Vatel, for having understood that at my house 
M. de la Fontaine, M. Conrard, and M. Loret, are as great as dukes and 
peers, as great as princes, greater than myself. Vatel, you are a good ser- 
vant, and I double your salary.” 

Vatel did not even thank his master, he merely shrugged his shoulders 
a little, murmuring this superb sentiment: “To be thanked for having 
done one’s duty is humiliating.” 

“He is right,” said Gourville, as he drew Fouquet’s attention, by a 


) 


} 


. : | : 


256 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. | 


gesture, to another point. He showed him a low-built carriage, drawn by 
two horses, upon which rocked two strong gibbets, bound together back to 
back by chains, whilst an archer, seated upon the thickness of the post, 
underwent, as well as he could, with his head cast down, the comments of 
a hundred vagabonds, who suessed the destination of the gibbets, and — 
escorted them to the Hétel de Ville. Fouquet started. ‘It is | 
you see,” said Gourville. 

“But it is not done,” replied Fouquet. 

“Oh, do not flatter yourself, monseigneur ; if they have thus lulled your 
friendship and suspicions—if things have gone so far, you will undo 
nothing.” 

“But I have not ratified.” 
~ “M. de Lyonne has ratified for you.” 

““] will go to the Louvre.” . 

“ Oh, no, you will not.” | 

“Would you advise such baseness ?” cried Fouquet, “ would you advisey 
me to abandon my friends? would you advise me, whilst able to fight, tc 


throw the arms I have in my hand to the ground: » \€ ) 
* T do not advise you to do anything of the kind, monseigneur. Are yor 

in a position to quit the post of surintendant at this moment ?” ia 
66 No. ) 1 
“Well, if the king wishes to displace you wis 


“ He will displace me absent as well as gee: 

“Yes, but you will never have insulted him.” 

“Ves, but I shall have been base ; now, I am not willing that my friends 
should die ; and they shall not die !” 

“ For that it is necessary you should go to the Louvre.” 

“ Gourville !” 

“Beware ! once at the Louvre, where you will be forced to defend your 
friends openly, that is to say, to makea a prolession of faith ; or you will 
be forced to abandon them irrevocably.” 

PaNever,” 

“Pardon me ;—the king will propose the alternative to you, rigorously, 
or else you will propose it to him yourself.” 

“That is true.” 

“That is the reason why conflict must be avoided. Let us return to 
Saint-Mandé, monseigneur.” 

“Gourville, I will not stir from this place, where the crime is to be 
carried out, where my disgrace is to be accomplished ; I will not stir, I 
say, till I have found some means of combating my enemies.” 

““Monseigneur,” replied Gourville, “ you would excite my pity, if I did 
not know you for one of the great spirits of this world. You possess a 
hundred and fifty millions, you are equal to the king in position, and a 
hundred and fifty millions his superior inmoney. M. Colbert has not even 
had the wit to have the testament of Mazarin accepted. Now, when a man 
is the richest person in a kingdom, and will take the trouble to spend the 
money, if that be done which he does not like, it is because he is a poor 
man. Let us return to Saint-Mandé, I say.’ 

“To consult with Pellisson ?—we will.” 

“No, monseigneur ; to count your money.” 

“So be it,” said Fouquet, with his eyes inflamed ;—“ yes, yes, to Saint- 
Mandé !” He got into his carriage again, and Gourville with him. Upon 
their road, at the end of the Faubourg Saint- Antoine, they overtook the 
humble equipage of Vatel, who was quietly conveying along his win de 


THE GALLERY OF SAINT-MANDE. 257 


Yotgeny. The black horses, going at a swift pace, alarmed, as they passed 
he timid hack of the maitre @hédtel, who, putting his head out at the win- 
ow, cried, in a fright, ‘“ Take care of my bottles !” 


CHAPTER LVII. 
THE GALLERY OF SAINT-MANDE. 


rIFTY persons were waiting for the surintendant. He did not even take 
he time to place himself in the hands of his valet de chambre for a minute, 
ut from the ferron went straight into the premzer salon. There his 
ciends were assembled in full chat. The intendant was about to order 
upper to be served, but, above all, the Abbé Fouquet watched the return 
f his brother, and was endeavouring to do the honours of the house in his 
bsence. Upon the arrival of the surintendant, a murmur of joy and 
fection was heard: Fouquet, full of affability, good humour, and munifi- 
nce, was beloved by his poets, his artists, and his men of business. His 
ow, upon which his little court read, as upon that of a god, all the move- 
nts of his soul, and thence drew rules of conduct,—his brow, upon which 
ampars of state never impressed a wrinkle, was this evening paler than 
usual, and more than one friendly eye remarked that paleness. Fouquet 
placed himself at the head of the table, and presided gaily during supper. 
He recounted Vatel’s expedition to La Fontaine ; he related the history 
of Menneville and the thin fowl to Pellisson, in such a manner, that all the 
table heard it. A tempest of laughter and jokes ensued, which was only 
checked by a serious and even sad gesture from Pellisson. The Abbé 
Fouquet, not being able to comprehend why his brother should have led 
the conversation in that direction, listened with all his ears, and sought in 
the countenance of Gourville, or in that of his brother, an explanation 
which nothing afforded him. Pellisson took up the matter :—“ Did they 
mention M. Colbert, then?” said he. 

“Why not ?” replied Fouquet ; “if true, as it is said to be, that the king 
has made him his intendant ?” Scarcely had Fouquet uttered these words, 
with a marked intention, than an explosion broke forth among the guests. 

“The miser!” said one. 

“The mean, pitiful fellow !” said another. 

“The hypocrite !” said a third. 

' Pellisson exchanged a meaning look with Fouquet. “ Messieurs,” said 
he, “in truth we are abusing a man whom no one knows: it is neither 
charitable nor reasonable ; and here is monsieur le surintendant, who, I 
am sure, agrees with me.” 

“Entirely,” replied Fouquet. “Let the fat fowls of M. Colbert alone ; 
dur business to-day is with the fazsans truffés of M. Vatel.” This speech 
stopped the dark cloud which was beginning to throw its shade over the 
zuests. Gourville succeeded so well in animating the poets with the wz 
te Fotgny,; the abbé, intelligent as a man who stands in need of the 
crowns of another, so enlivened the financiers and men of the sword, that, 
imidst the vapours of this joy and the noise of conversation, the object of 
nquietudes disappeared completely. The testament of Cardinal Mazarin 
vas the text of the conversation at the second course and dessert; then 
ouquet ordered basins of confitures and fountains of liqueurs to be carried 
ato the sa/on adjoining the gallery. He led the way thither, conducting 
»y the hand a lady, the queen, by his preference, of the evening. The 
nusicians then supped, and the promenades in the gallery and the gardens 
2 17 


| » 2 Sagres. 2 ie SO ancien 9 


238- THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


commenced, beneath a spring sky, mild and perfumed. Pellisson the 
approached the surintendant, and said: “Something troubles mon 
seigneur ?” 

“Greatly,” replied the minister ; “ask Gourville to tell you what it is.’ 
Pellisson, on turning round, found La Fontaine treading upon his heels. 
He was obliged to listen to a Latin verse, which the poet had compuse 
upon Vatel. La Fontaine had, for an hour, been scanning this verse 1 
all corners, seeking some one to pour it out upon advantageously. H 
thought he had caught Pellisson, but the latter escaped him ; he turne 
towards Sorel, who had, himself, just composed a gzatrazz in honour of th 
supper and the Amffytrion. La Fontaine in vain endeavoured to gai 
attention to his verses ; Sorel wanted to obtain a hearing for his guatrain 
He was obliged to retrograde before M. le Comte de Chanost, whose ar 
Fouquet had just taken. L’Abbé Fouquet perceived that the poet, a 
absent as usual, was about to follow the two talkers ; and he interposed 
La Fontaine seized upon him, and recited his verses. The abbé, who was 
quite innocent of Latin, nodded his head, in cadence, at every roll whi 
La Fontaine impressed upon his body, according to the undulations of t 
dactyls and spondees. While this was going on, behind the confitu 
basins, Fouquet related the event of the day to his son-in-law, M. 
Chanost. ‘ We must send the idle and useless to look at the firewor 
said Pellisson to Gourville, “ whilst we converse here.” 

“So be it,” said Gourville, addressing four words to Vatel. The latter 
then led towards the gardens the major part of the beaux, the ladies and 
the chatterers, whilst the men walked in the gallery, lighted by three 
hundred waxlights, in the sight of all; the admirers of fireworks all ran 
away towards the garden. Gourville approached Fouquet, and said : 
** Monsieur, we are all here.” 

“All!” said Fouquet. 

“Yes,—count.” The surintendant counted ; there were eight persons. 
Pellisson and Gourville walked arm in arm, as if conversing upon vague 
and light subjects. Sorel and two officers imitated them, in an opposite 
direction. The Abbé Fouquet walked alone. Fouquet, with M. de 
Chanost, walked as if entirely absorbed by the conversation of his son-in- 
law. “ Messieurs,” said he, “let no one of you raise his head.as he walks, 
or appear to pay attention to me; continue walking, we are alone, listen 
to me. moat? Bac 

A perfect silence ensued, disturbed only by the distant cries of th 
joyous guests, from the groves whence they beheld the fireworks. It wa 
a whimsical spectacle this, of these men walking in groups, as if each on 
was occupied about something, whilst lending attention really to only one 
amongst them, who, himself, seemed to be speaking only to his companion. 
“Messieurs,” said Fouquet, “you have, without doubt, remarked the 
absence of two of my friends this evening, who were with us on Wednes- 
day. For God's sake, abbé, do not stop,—it is not necessary to enable’ 
you to listen ; walk on, carrying your head in a natural way, and, as you 
have an excellent sight, place yourself at the window, and if any one 
returns towards the gallery, give us notice by coughing.” The abbé 
obeyed. 

“I have not observed the absent,” said Pellisson, who, at this moment, 
was turning his back to Fouquet, and walking the other way. ; z 

pe do not see M. Lyodot,” said Sorel, “who pays me my pension.” | 

And I,” said the abbé, at the window, “do not see M. d’Eymeris, wha) 
owes me eleven hundred livres from our last game at Brelan.” 


THE GALLERY OF SAINT-MANDE., 259 


“ Sorel,” continued Fouquet, walking bent, and gloomily, “you will 
never receive your pension any more from M. Lyodot ; and you, abbé, will 
never be paid your eleven hundred livres by M. d’Eymeris ; for both are 
-about to die.” 

“To die !” exclaimed the whole assembly, stopped, in spite of them- 
selves, in the scene they were playing, by that terrible word. 

“Recover yourselves, messicurs,” said Fouquet, “for, perhaps, we are 
watched—I said : to die !” 

“To die !” repeated Pellisson ; “what, the men I saw not six days ago, 
full of health, gaiety, and a future! What then is man, good God ! that 
disease should thus bring him down all at once !” 

“Tt is not a disease,” said Fouquet. 

“ Then there is a remedy,” said Sorel. 

“No remedy. Messieurs de Lyodot and d’Eymeris are on the eve of 
their last day.” 

“‘ Of what are these gentlemen dying then ?” asked an officer. 

* Ask of him who kills them,” replied Fouquet. 

“Whokills them? Are they being killed, then?” cried the terrified chorus. 

“ They do better still ; they are hanging them,” murmured Fouquet, in 

sinister voice, which sounded like a funeral knell in that rich gallery, 

lendid with pictures, flowers, velvet, and gold. Involuntarily every one 

opped; the abbé quitted his window ; the first fusees of the fireworks 
began to mount above the trees. A prolonged cry from the gardens 

attracted the surintendant to enjoy the spectacle. He drew near to a 

window, and his friends placed themselves behind him, attentive to his 

least wish. ‘ Messieurs,” said he, “ M. Colbert has caused to be arrested, 
tried, and will execute to death my two friends ; what does it become me 
to do ?” 
“ Mordieu / exclaimed the abbé, the first, “run M. Colbert through the 
body.” 
“ Monseigneur,” said Pellisson, “ you must speak to his majesty.” 
“The king, my dear Pellisson, has signed the order for the execution.” 
“Well!” said the Comte de Chanost, “the execution must not take place, 
then ; that is all.” 
“Impossible,” said Gourville, “unless we could corrupt the jailers,” 
“ Or the governor,” said Fouquet. 
“This night the prisoners might be allowed to escape,” 
“ Which of you will take charge of the transaction ?” 
I “J,” said the abbé, “ will carry the money.” 
« “And I,” said Pellisson, “ will be bearer of the words.” 

‘* Words and money,” said Fouquet ; “ five hundred thousand livres to 
the governor of the conctergerie, that®is sufficient ; nevertheless, it shall 
-be a million, if necessary.” 

* A million !” cried the abbé ; “ why, for less than half, I would cause the 
half of Paris to be sacked.” 

“There must be no disorder,” said Pellisson. “ The governor being 
won, the two prisoners escape ; once clear of the fangs of the law, they will 
call together the enemies of Colbert, and prove to the king that his young 
justice, like all other exaggerations, is not infallible.” 

“Go to Paris, then, Pellisson,” said Fouquet, “and bring hither the two 
victims ; to-morrow we shall see.” 

Gourville gave Pellisson the five hundred thousand livres. ‘“ Take care 
the wind does not carry you away,” said the abbé ; “ what a responsibility. 
Peste/ Let me help you a little.” 


-« 


ri 


250, THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“ Silence !” said Fouquet, “somebody is coming. Ah! the fireworks are 
producing a magical effect.” At this moment a shower of sparks fell 
rustling among the branches of the neighbouring trees. Pellisson and 
Gourville went out together by the door of the gallery ; Fouquet descended 
to the garden with the five last plotters. 


——— 


CHAPTER bViti 
THE EPICUREANS, 


As Fouquet was giving, or appearing to give, all his attention to the bril- 
liant illuminations, the languishing music of the violins and hautboys, the; 
sparkling sheaves of the artificial fires, which, inflaming the heavens with 
glowing reflections, marked behind the trees the dark profile of the donjon 
of Vincennes ; as we say, the surintendant was smiling on the ladies an 
the poets, the fé¢e was not less gay than ordinary ; and Vatel, whose res 
less, even jealous look, earnestly consulted the look of Fouquet, did ng 
appear dissatisfied with the welcome given to the ordering of the evening 
entertainment. The fireworks over, the company dispersed about t 
gardens and beneath the marble porticos with that delightful liberty whic 
reveals in the master of the house so much forgetfulness of greatness, $0 
much courteous hospitality, so much magnificent carelessness.. The poets 
wandered about, arm in arm, through the groves ; some reclined upon 
beds of moss, to ‘the great damage of velvet clothes and curled heads, into 
which little dried leaves and blades of grass insinuated themselves. The 
ladies, in small numbers, listened to the songs of the singers and the 
verses of the poets; others listened to the prose, spoken with much art, 
by men who were neither actors nor poets, but to whom youth and soli- 
tude gave an unaccustomed eloquence, which appeared to them preferable 
to all. ‘ Why,” said La Fontaine, “ does not our master Epicurus descend 
into the garden? Epicurus never abandoned his pupils; the master. is 
wrong.” 

“‘ Monsieur,” said Conrard, “you are very wrong in persisting to deco- 
rate yourself with the name of an Epicurean ; indeed, nothing here reminds 
me of the doctrine of the philosopher of Gargetta.” 

“Bah !”said La Fontaine, “is it not written that Epicurus purchased a 
large garden, and lived in it tranquilly with his friends ?” 

‘“* That is true.” 

“Well, has not M. Fouquet purchased a large garden at Saint-Mandé, 
and do we not live here very tranquilly with him and his friends ?” 

“Yes, without doubt. Unfortunately, it is neither the garden nor the 
friends which can make the resemblance. Now, what likeness is there 
between the doctrine of Epicurus and that of M. Fouquet ?” 

“This—pleasure gives happiness.” 

SiN ext”. 

“ Well, I do not think we ought to consider ourselves unfortunate, for 
my part, at least. A good repast—vin de Fotgny, which they have the 
delicacy to go and fetch for me from my favourite cadare¢,; not one im- 
pertinence heard during a supper of an hour long, in spite of the presence | 
of ten millionaires and twenty poets.” a 

“I stop you there. You mentioned vin de Foigny and a good repast ; 
do you persist in that ?” 

“T persist—anteco, as they say at Port Royal.” 


ZHE EPICUREANS. 261 


“Then please to recollect that the great Epicurus lived, and made his 
pupils live, upon bread, vegetables, and clear water.” 

‘That is not certain,” said La Fontaine ; ‘‘and you appear to me to be 
confounding Epicurus with Pythagoras, my dear Conrard.” 

“Remember, likewise, that the ancient philosopher was rather a bad 
friend of the gods and the magistrates.” 

“Oh, that is what I cannot suffer,” replied La Fontaine. ‘“Epicurug 
was like M. Fouquet.” 

“Do not compare him to monsieur le surintendant,” said Conrard, in 
an agitated voice, “ or you would accredit the reports which are circulated 
concerning him and us.” 

* What reports ?” 

* That we are bad Frenchmen, lukewarm with regard to the monarch, 
deaf to the law.” 

“T return, then, to my text,” said La Fontaine. “ Listen, Conrard, this 
the morality of Epicurus, whom, besides, I consider, if I must tell you 
o,asamyth. All which touches the least upon antiquity is a myth. 
piter, if we give a little attention to it, is life. Alcides is strength. The 
rds are there to bear me out: Zeus, that is ze, to live ; Alcides, 
t is alcé, vigour. Well, Epicurus, that is mild watchfulness, that is pro- 
tdction. Now, who watches better over the State, or who protects indi- 
viduals, better than M. Fouquet does ?” 

“ You talk etymology, and not morality ; I say that we modern Epicu- 
‘eans are troublesome citizens.” 

“ Oh !” cried La Fontaine, ‘‘if we become troublesome citizens, it will 
not be in following the maxims of our master. Listen to one of his prin- 
cipal aphorisms.” 

“T listen.” 

“ Wish for good leaders.” 

“ Well ?” 

“Well! what does M. Fouquet say .o us every day? ‘When shall we 
be governed?’ Does he say so? Come, Conrard, be frank.” 

“‘He says so, that is true.” 

“Well, that is a doctrine of Epicurus.” 

“Yes : but that is a little seditfous, observe.” 

* How—seditious to wish to be governed by good heads or leaders ?” 

“ Certainly, when those who govern are bad.” 

“Patience! I have a reply for all.” 

“ Even for that I have just said to you?” 

“Listen ! Would you submit to those who govern ill? Oh, it is written, 
Cacés politeuoust. You grant me the text ?” 

“ Pardieu ! I think so. Do you know you speak Greek as well as A’sop 
did, my dear La Fontaine.” 

“Is there any wickedness in that, my dear Conrard ?” 

“ God forbid I should say so.” 

“Then let us return to M. Fouquet. What did he repeat to us all the 
day? Was it not this: ‘What a cuzstre is that Mazarin! what an ass ! 
what a leech! We must, however, submit to the fellow !) Now, Conrard, 
did he say so, or did he not ?” 

“IT confess that he said it, and even perhaps too often.” 

“ Like Epicurus, my friend, still like Epicurus ; I repeat, we are Epicu- 
reans, and that is very amusing.” 

“Yes; but I am afraid there will rise up, by the side of us, a sect like 
that of Epictetus. You know him well—-the philosopher of Hieropolis— 


262 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE., 


he who called bread luxury, vegetables prodigality, and clear water drunk- 
enness—he who, being beaten by his master,said to him, grumbling a little 
it is true; but without being angry, ‘JT will lay a wager you have sei s'y 
my leg! ? and who won his wager.” 

“He was a gosling, that Epictetus !” 

“Granted ; but he might easily become the fashion by only changing 
his name into that of Colbert.” | 

“Bah !” replied La Fontaine, “that is impossible ; never will you find! 
Colbert in Epictetus.” 

“You are right ; I shall find—Co/uder there, at the most.” 

‘“* Ah, you are beaten, Conrard ; you are reduced to a play upon words. | 
M. Arnaud pretends that I have no logic ; I have more than M. Nicolle.” 

_ “Yes,” replied Conrard, “vou have logic, but you area Jansenist.” ~ 

’ This peroration was hailed by an immense shout of laughter ; by degrees 
the promenaders had been attracted by the exclamations of the two dis- 
putants around the arbour under which they argued. All the discussio 
had been religiously listened to, and Fouquet himself, scarcely able t 
suppress his laughter, had given an example of moderation. But th 
aznouement of the scene threw off all restraint ; he laughed aloud. Ever 
body laughed as he did, and the two philosophers were saluted by una 
mous felicitations. La Fontaine, however, was declared conqueror, 
account of his profound erudition ‘and his irrefr agable logic. Conrard ob- 
tained the compensation due to an unsuccessful combatant: he was praised 
for his loyalty and the purity of his conscience. 

At the moment when this joy was manifesting itself by the most lively 
demonstrations—at the moment when the ladies were reproaching the 
two adversaries with not having admitted women into the system of Epi- 
curean happiness, Gourville was seen hastening from the other end of the 
garden, approaching Fouquet, who surveyed him anxiously, and detaching 
him, by his presence alone, from the group. The surintendant preserved 
upon his face the smile and the character of carelessness ; but scarcely 
was he out of sight than he threw off the mask. “ Well,” said he eagerly, 
“‘ where is Pellisson? What is he doing?” 

“Pellisson is returned from Paris.” __ 

‘Has he brought back the prisoners ?” 

‘““He has not even seen the comczerge of the prison.” 

“What! did he not tell him he came from me ?” . | 

“He told him so, but the concterge sent him this reply: ‘If any 
one came to me from M. Fouquet, he would have a letter from 
M. Fouquet.’” 

“Oh !” cried the latter, “if a letter is all he wants—~”- 

*¢ Never, monsieur said Pellisson, showing himself at the corner of the 
little wood, ‘ ‘never. Go yourself, and speak in your own name.” 

“You are right. I will go in, as if to work ; let the horses remain har- 
nessed, Pellisson. Entertain my friends, Goutville.” 

“One last word of advice, monseigneur, ” replied the latter. 

“ Speak, Gourville.” 

“Do not go to the concierge but at the last minute ; it is brave, but it 
is not wise. Excuse me, Monsieur Pellisson, if I am not of the same 
opinion as you ; but believe me, monseigneur, send again a message toy 
this concierge, —he is a worthy man, but do not carry it yourself.” 

“T will think of it,” said F ouquet ; “besides, we have all the alent 
before us.” 

© Do not reckon too much upon time; were the time we have double 


| 
{ 


THE EPICUREANS. 263 


what it is, it would not be too much,” replied Pellisson ; “it is never a 
fault to arrive too soon.” 
_ “Adieu !” said the surintendant ; “ come with me, Pellisson. Gourville, 
tcommend my guests to your care.” And he set off. The Epicureans did 
ot perceive that the head of the school had left them: the violins con- 
mued playing all night. 


CHAPTER LIX. 
A QUARTER OF AN HOUR’S DELAY. 


OUQUET, on leaving his house for the second time that day, felt himself 
ess heavy and less disturbed than might have been expected. He turned 
owards Pellisson, who was meditating in the corner of the carriage some 
ood arguments against the violent proceedings of Colbert. 

“My dear Pellisson,” said Fouquet, then, “it is a great pity you are not 
woman. 

“T think, on the contrary, it is very fortunate,” replied Pellisson ; “ for, 
nseigneur, I am excessively ugly.” 

*Pellisson ! Pellisson !” said the surintendant, laughing. “ You repeat 
o often, you are ‘ugly,’ not to leave people to believe that it gives you 
much pain.” 

! “In fact it does, monseigneur, much ; there is no man more unfor- 
tunate than I ; I was handsome, the small-pox réndered me hideous ; I 
am deprived of a great means of seduction ; now, I am your principal 
clerk, or something of that sort ; I take great interest in your affairs, and 
if, at this moment, I were a pretty woman, I could render you an impor- 
tant service.” 

What ?” 

“TI would go and find the conczerge of the Palais ; I would seduce him, 
for he is a gallant man, extravagantly partial to women ; then I would get 
away our two prisoners.” 

“T hope to be able to do so myself, although I am not a pretty woman,” 
replied Fouquet. 

“Granted, monseigneur ; but you are compromising yourself very 
much.” 

“Oh!” cried Fouquet, suddenly, with one of those secret transports 
which the generous blood of youth, or the remembrance of some sweet 
emotion, infuses into the heart. “Oh! I know a woman who will enact 
the personage we stand in need of, with the lieutenant-governor of the 
conciergerte.” 

“ And, on my part, I know fifty, monseigneur ; fifty trumpets, which 
will inform the universe of your generosity, of your devotion to your 
friends, and, consequently, will ruin you sooner or later in ruining them- 
selves.” 

“T do not speak of such women, Pellisson ; I speak of a noble and beauti- 
ful creature who joins to the intelligence and wit of her sex, the valour and 
coolness of ours ; I speak of a woman, handsome enough to make the 
walls of a prison bow down to salute her, of a woman discreet enough to 
let no one suspect by whom she has been sent.” 

“ A treasure !” said Pellisson ; “you would make a famous present to 
monsieur the governor of the couciergerie! Peste! monseigneur. he 
might have his head cut off, that might happen ; but he would, before 
dying, have had such happiness as no man had enjoyed before him.” 


2€4 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“And I add,” said Fouquet, “that the conczerge of the Palais would not 
have his head cut off, for he would receive of me my horses, to effect his 
escape, and five hundred thousand livres wherewith to live comfortably in. 
England : I add, that this woman, my friend, would give him nothing bt 
the horses and the money. Let us go and seek this woman, Pellisson.” | 

The surintendant reached forth his hand towards the gold and silke, 
cord placed in the interior of his carriage, but Pellisson stopped himr 
‘‘ Monseigneur,” said he, “you are going to lose as much time in seeking 
this woman as Columbus took to discover the new world. Now, we hay~ 
but two hours in which we can possibly succeed ; the concierge once got 
to bed, how shall we get at him without making a disturbance? When 
daylight dawns, how can we conceal our proceedings? Go, go yourself, 
monseigneur, and do not seek either woman or an angel to-night.” ; 

“ But, my dear Pellisson, here we are before her door,” 

‘What! before the angel’s door ?” 

“Why, yes.” 

“This is the hotel of Madame de Bellitre !” 

tush |” 

“ Ah! Good Lord!” exclaimed Pellisson. 

“ What have you to say against her ?” 

“ Nothing, alas! and it is that which creates my despair. Nothin{_ 
absolutely nothing. Why can I not, on the contrary, say ill enough of 
her to prevent your going to her ?” 3 

But Fouquet had already given orders to stop, and the carriage was 
motionless. ‘Prevent me!” cried Fouquet ; “why, no power on earth 
should prevent my going to pay my compliments to Madame de Plessis- 
Belliére ; besides, who knows that we shall not stand in need of her ?” 

* No, monseigneur, no !” 

“But I do not wish youto wait for me, Pellisson,” replied Fouquet, with 
sincere courtesy. 

“The greater reason why I should, monseigneur ; knowing that you 
are keeping me waiting, you will, perhaps, stay a shorter time. Take 
care! You see there is a carriage in the courtyard ; she has some one 
with her.” Fouquet leant towards the steps of the carriage. ‘“ One word 
more,” cried Pellisson ; “ do not go to this lady till you have been to the 
concierge, for Heaven’s sake !” 

“Eh! five minutes, Pellisson,” replied Fouquet, alighting at the steps 
of the hotel, leaving Pellisson in the carriage, in a very ill humour. Fou- 
quet ran up stairs, told his name to the footman, which excited an eagerness 
and a respect that showed the habit the mistress of the house had of 
honouring that name in her family. ‘ Monsieur le surintendant,” cried 
the marquise, advancing, very pale, to meet him; “ what an honour! 
what an unexpected pleasure !”’ said she. Then in a low voice, “ Take 
care !” added the marquise, “ Marguerite Vanel is here !” 

“Madame,” replied Fouquet, rather agitated, “I came upon business. 
One single word, in haste, if you please!” And he entered the salon. 
Madame Vanel had risen, more pale, more livid, than Envy herself. 
Fouquet in vain addressed her, with the most agreeable, most pacific salu- 
tation ; she only replied by a terrible glance darted at the marquise and 
Fouquet. This keen glance of a jealous woman is a stiletto which pierces — 
every cuirass ; Marguerite Vanel plunged it straight into the hearts of the 
two confidants. She made a curtsey to her friend, a more profound one 
to Fouquet, and took leave, under pretence of having a great number of 
visits tu make, without the marquise trying to prevent her, or Fouquet, a 


A QUARTER OF AN HOUR'S DELAY 265 


rey to anxiety, thinking anything about her. She was scarcely out of 
he room, and Fouquet left alone with the marquise, before he threw him- 
elf on his knees, without saying a word. “I expected you,” said the mar- 
uise, with a tender sigh. 

“Oh ! no,” cried he, “or you would have sent away that woman.” 

“She has been here little more than half an hour, and I had no suspi- 
ion she would come this evening.” 
“You do love me a little, then, marquise ?” 

hat is not the question, now; it is of your dangers; how are your 

airs going on?” 
rE! am going this evening to get my friends out of the prisons of the 
ais. 
“ How will you do that ?” 
“By buying and seducing the governor.” 
‘He is a friend of mine ; can I assist you, without injuring you ?” 
‘Oh! marquise, it would be a signal service ; but how can you be em- 
yed without your being compromised ? Now, never shall my life, my 
ver, or even my liberty, be purchased at the expense of a single tear 
m your eyes, or of a single pain upon your brow !” 
*Monseigneur, speak no more such words, they bewilder me ; I have 
en culpable in trying to serve you, without calculating the extent of what 
yas doing. I love you, in reality, as a tender friend, and as a friend, I 
grateful for your delicate attentions—but, alas !—alas ! you will never 
d a mistress in me.” 

“ Marquise !” cried Fouquet in a tone of despair, “ why not?” 

** Because you are too much beloved,” said the young woman, in a low 
voice ; “ because you are too much beloved by too many people—because 
the splendour of glory and fortune wound my eyes, whilst the darkness of 
sorrow attracts them ; because, in short, I, who have repulsed you in your 
proud magnificence ; I, who scarcely looked at you in your splendour, I 
came, like a mad woman, to throw myself, as it were, into your arms, 
when I saw a misfortune hovering over your head. You understand me, 
now, monseigneur ? Become happy again, that I may again, become chaste 
in heart and in thought : your misfortunes would ruin me !” 

“Oh! madame,” said Fouquet, with an emotion he had never before 
felt; “were I to fall to the last degree of human misery, and should hear 
from your mouth that word which you now refuse me, that day, madame, 
you will be mistaken in your noble egotism ; that day you will fancy you 
are consoling the most unfortunate of men, and you will have said: J love 
a to the most illustrious, the most delighted, the most triumphant of the 

appy beings of this world.” 

He was still at her feet, kissing her hand when Pellisson entered pre- 
cipitately, crying, in very ill humour, “ Monseigneur! madame! for 
Heaven’s sake! excuse me. Monseigneur, you have been here half 
an hour. Oh! do not both look at me so reproachfully. Madame, 
poy who is that lady who left your house soon after monseigneur came 
ini 
‘““Madame Vanel,” said Fouquet. 

“ There,” cried Pellisson, “I was sure of that.” 

“ Well! what then ?” 

“Why, she got into her carriage looking deadly pale.” 

“What consequence is that to me?’ 

“Yes, but what she said to her coachman is of consequence to you.” 
“What, good God !” cried the marquise, “ was that ?” 


266 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, | 


“To M. Colbert’s !” said Pellisson in a hoarse voice. 

“ Good Heavens! begone, begone, monseigneur |” replied the marquise,” 
pushing Fouquet out of the sa/oz, whilst Pellisson dragged him by the; 
hand. 

“Am I, then, indeed,” said the surintendant, “become a child, to be 
frightened by a shadow ?” 

“You are a giant,” said the marquise, “whom a viper is endeavourin 
to bite at the heel.” 4 

Pellisson continued to drag Fouquet quite to the carfiage. “To ave 
palais at full speed !” cried Pellisson to the coachman. The horses set oi 
like lightning ; no obstacle relaxed their pace for an instant, Only at the 
Arcade Saint-Jean, as they were coming out upon the Place de Gréve, if 
long file of horsemen, barring the narrow passage, stopped the carriage « 
the surintendant. There was no means of forcing this barrier; it we |. 
necessary to wait ‘till the mounted archers of the watch, for it was th _ 
who stopped the way, had passed with the heavy carriage they were ¢ Py 
corting, and which ascended rapidly towards the Place Baudoyer. Fouqv , 
and Pellisson took no further account of this circumstance beyond depl: t 
ing the minute’s delay they had to submit to. They entered the habitati 
of the concierge du palais five minutes after. That officer was still walki 
about in the front court. At the name of Fouquet, whispered in his et 
by Pellisson, the governor eagerly approached the carriage, and, hat in Ipf ~ 
hand, was profuse in his reverences. ‘‘ What an honour for me, mol 
seigneur,” said he. 

“One word, monsieur le gouverneur, will you take the trouble te get 
into my carriage?” The officer placed himself opposite Fouquet in the 
coach. 

“ Monsieur,” said Fouquet, “I have a service to ask of you.” 

“ Speak, monseigneur.” 

“A service that will be compromising for you, monsieur, but which will 
assure to you foi ever my protection and my friendship.” 

‘4 “Were it to cast myself into the fire for you, monseigneur, I would 
O it.” 

“ That is well,” said Fouquet ; ‘“ what I require is much more simple.” 

“That being so, monseigneur, what is it ?” 

“To conduct me to the chamber of Messrs. Lyodot and d’Eymeris.” 

“Will monseigneur have the kindness to say for what purpose ?” 

““T will tell you in their presence, monsieur ; at the same time that I 
will give you ample means of palliating this escape.” 

“Escape! Why, then, monseigneur, does not know ?” 

Watt, 

“That Messrs. Lyodot and D’Eymeris are no longer here.” 

** Since when ?” cried Fouquet, in great agitation. 

*‘ About a quarter of an hour.” 

“Whither are they gone, then ?” 

“To Vincennes—to the donjon.” 

“Who took them from here ?” 

‘An order from the king.” 

“Oh! woe! woe!” exclaimed Fouquet, striking his forehead. “Woe :” 
and without saying a single word more to the governer, he threw himself 
back in his carriage, despair in his heart and death on his countenance. 

“Well !” said Pellisson, with great anxiety. 

“Our friends are lost. Colbert is conveying them to the donjon, it 
was they who crossed our passage under the arcade St. Jean.” . 


A OUARTER OF AN HOURS DELAY. 267 


| 


) Pellisson, struck as with a thunderbolt, made no reply. With a single 
proach he would have killed his master. ‘‘ Where is monseigneur going ?” 
aid the footman. 

““Home—to Paris. You, Pellisson, return to Saint-Mandé, and bring 
: > Abbe Fouquet to me within an hour, Begone !” 


CHAPTER LX. 
PLAN OF BATTLE. 


CHE night was already far advanced when the Abbé Fouquet joined his 
rother. Gourville had accompanied him. ‘These three men, pale.with 
iture events, resembled less three powers of the day than three con- 
»irators, united by one same thought of violence. Fouquet walked for a 
ng time, with his eyes fixed upon the floor, striking his hands one against 
e other. At length, taking courage, in the midst of a deep, long sigh : 
Abbé,” said he, © you were speaking to me, only to-day, of certain people 
bY maintain ?” 

“Yes, monsieur,” replied the abbé. 

“Tell me precisely who are these people?” The abbé hesitated. 

'* Come! no fear, I am not threatening ; no romancing, for I am not 
joking.” 

“Since you demand the truth, monseigneur, here it is:—I have a hun- 
dred and twenty friends or companions of pleasure, who are sworn to me 
as the thief is to the gallows.” 

* And you think you can depend upon them ?” 

“ Entirely.” 

* And you will not compromise yourself?” 

“T will not even make my appearance.” 

“And are they men of resolution ?” 

“They would burn Paris, if I promised them they should not be burnt 
in turn.” 

“ The thing I ask of you, abbé,” said Fouquet, wiping the sweat which 
fell from his brow, “is to throw your hundred and twenty men upon the 
people | will point out to you, at a certain moment given—is it possible ?” 

al & will not be the first time such a thing has happened to them, mon- 
seigneur.” 

“That is well ; but would these bandits attack an armed force ?” 

“They are used to that.” 

“ Then get your hundred and twenty men together, abbé.” 

“Directly. But where ?” 

“On the road to Vincennes, to-morrow, at two o’clock precisely.” 

“To carry off Lyodot and D’Eymeris? There will be blows to be got !” 

* A number, no doubt ; are you afraid ?” 

* Not for myself, but for you.” 

* Your men will know then what they have to do?” 

“They are too intelligent not to guess it. Now, a minister who gets up 
a riot against his king—exposes himself ——” 

“Of what importance is that to you, I pray? Besides, if I fall, you fall 
with me.” 

“It would then be more prudent, monsieur, not to stir in the affair, and 
leave the king to take this little satisfaction.” 

* Think well of this, abbé. Lyodot and D’Eymeris at Vincennes are a 


263 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


prelude of ruin for my house. I repeat it—I arrested, you will be im 
prisoned—I imprisoned, you will be exiled.” 

“ Monsieur, I am at your orders ; have you any to give me?” 

“ What I told you—I wish that, to-morrow, the two financiers of who; 
they mean to make victims, whilst there remain so many criminals 
punished, should be snatched from the fury of my enemies. Take y 
measures accordingly. Is it possible ?” 

“Tt is possible.” 

* Describe your plan.” 

“Tt is of rich simplicity. The ordinary guard at executions consists 
twelve archers.” 

“ There will be a hundred to-morrow.” 

“T reckon so. I even say more—there will be two hundred.” 

“Then your hundred and twenty men will not be enough.” 

“Pardon me. In every crowd composed of a hundred thousand spe 
tators, there are ten thousand bandits or cutpurses—only they dare n 
take the initiative.” 

Well t? 

“There will then be, to-morrow, on the Place de Gréve, which I cho 
as my battle-field, ten thousand auxiliaries to my hundred and twe 
men. ‘The attack commenced by the latter, the others will finish it.” 

“That all appears feasible. But what will be done with regard tot 
prisoners upon the Place de Gréve ?” 

“This ; they must be thrust into some house—that will make a siege 
necessary to get them out again. And stop! here is another idea, more 
sublime still: certain houses have two issues—one upon the Place, anid 
the other into the Rue de la Mortellerie, or la Vannerie, or la Texeranderie. 
The prisoners, entering by one door, will go out at another.” 

“Yes ; but fix upon something positive.” 

““T am seeking to do so.” 

“ And I,” cried Fouquet, “I have found it. Listen to what has occurred 
to me at this moment.” 

“T am listening.” 

Fouquet made a sign to Gourville, who appeared to understand. “ One 
of my friends lends me sometimes the keys of a house which he rents, 
Rue Baudoyer, the spacious gardens of which extend behind a certain 
house of the Place de Gréve.” 

“That is the place for us,” said the abbé. ‘“ What house ?” 

““A cabaret, pretty well frequented, whose sign represents the image of 
Notre Dame.” 

“T know it,” said the abbé. 

“This cabaret has windows opening upon the Place, a place of exit into 
the court, which must abut upon the gardens of my friend bya door of 
communication.” 

“ Good !” said the abbé. 

“Enter by the cadaret, take the prisoners in; defend the door while you 
enable them to fly by the garden and the Place Baudoyer.” 

“That is all plain. Monsieur, you would make an excellent general, like 
monsieur le prince.” 


“ Have you understood me ??—-“ Perfectly well.” 


‘“ / 


How much will it amount to, to make your bandits all drunk with 
wine, and to satisfy them with gold ?” | 

“Oh, monsieur, what an expression! Oh, monsieur, if they heard you! 
Some of them are very susceptible,” 


PLAN OF BATTLE. . . “269 


T mean to say they must be brought no longer to know the heavens from 
he earth; for I shall to-morrow contend with the king; and when | 
ght I mean to conquer—please to understand.” 
“Tt shall be done, monsieur. Give me your other ideas.” 
“ That is your business.” 
“Then give me your purse.” 
“ Gourville, count a hundred thousand livres for the abbé.” 
“ Good! and spare nothing, did you not say ?’——“ Nothing.” 
“ That is well.” 
“ Monseigneur,” objected Gourville, “if this should be known, we should 
se our heads.” 
“Eh! Gourville,” replied Fouquet, purple with anger, “you excite my 
ity. Speak for yourself, if you please. My head does not shake in that 
anner upon my shoulders. Now, abbé, is everything arranged 2” 
“ Everything.” 
“ At two o’clock to-morrow.” 
“ At twelve, because it will be necessary to prepare our auxiliaries in a 
cret manner.” 
“ That is true ; do not spare the wine of the cabaretier.” 
¢I will spare neither his wine nor his house,” replied the abbé, with a 
eering laugh. “I have my plan, I tell you ; leave me to set it in opera- 
n, and you shall see.” 
“ Where shall you be yourself?” 
“‘ Everywhere ; nowhere.” 
“ And how shall I receive information.” 
| “By a courier, whose horse shall be kept in 
friend.. A propos, the name of your friend.” 
Fouquet looked again at Gourville. The 
his master, saying, “ Accompany monsig ) 
only the house is easily to be known, theg% eee Ree si Weriieney 
front, a garden, the only one in the qyMrter, behind.” ¢-Dame" in the 
“Good! good! I will go and ge Onn Ga my delcliearcet 
“ Accompany him, Gourvillef#” said Fouquet, “and count him down the 
money. One moment, abb¢—one moment, Gourville—what name will b 
given to this carrying off ?” mas 
eae very natural one, nsieur—the Riot.” 
The riot on accouméof what? For, if ever the peo é : 
posed to pay their coyfrt to the king, it is when he Tal speataie res dis- 
pa will manage that,” said the abbé. " be 
Yes ; but you play manage it badly, an vj ” 
Piet salle ondtat all. ae ra ge ee will guess. 
4 What is that ?” ‘ 
My men shall cry out ‘ Colbert, vzve Colbert ? an 
selves upon the prisoners as if they would tear i yaiae amen nee 
Hea on ack eee as too mild a punishment.” 7 
! that 1s an idea,” said Gourvi 6s / . ; 
imagination you have !” urville, “ Peste/ monsieur Vabbé, what 
onsieur, we are worthy of our family,” replied 
fellow,” murmured F outien Then Pee Ho i 
rry it out, but shed no blood.” ‘ eM sca 
the abbé set off together, with their heads full of the 
he surintendant laid himself down upon some cushions 
espect to the sinister projects of the morrow, half 


-~e 


€ very garden of your 


atter came tothe succour of 


‘270 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


CHAPTER LXI. re 
THE CABARET OF THE IMAGE-DE-NOTRE-DAME. 


AT two o'clock the next day, fifty thousand spectators had taken th 
position upon the Place, around the two gibbets which had been eleva 
between the Quai de la Gréve and the Quai Pelletier ; one close to 
other, with their backs to the parapet of the river. In the morning al 
all the sworn criers of the good city of Paris had traversed the quart 
of the city, particularly the Aad/es and the faudourgs, announcing with th 
hoarse and indefatigable voices, the great justice done by the king up 
two peculators, two thieves, devourers of the people. And these peop 
whose interests were so warmly looked after,in order not to fail in respe 
for their king, quitted shops, stalls, and a/eliers, to go and evince a lit 
gratitude to Louis XIV., absolutely like invited guests, who feared to co 
mit an impoliteness in not repairing to the house of him who invited the 
According to the tenor of the sentence, which the criers read loudly a, 
badly, two farmers of the revenues, monopolists of money, dilapidator 
the royal provisions, extortioners and forgers, were about to undergo ca 
punishment on the Place de Gréve, with their names affixed over 
heads, according to their sentence. As to those names, the sentence m 
no mention-of them. The curiosity of the Parisians was atits height, a 
sWeware said, an immense crowd waited with feverish impatience the h 
fixed for the @xecution. The news had already spread that the prison 
transferred to thé Chateau of Vincennes, would be conducted from t 
prison to the Place te Gréve. Consequently, the faubourg and the Rue 
Saint-Antoine were crowded ; for the population of Paris in those days 
of great executions was divided into two categories ; those who came to 
see the condemned pass—these were of timid and mild hearts, but curious 
in philosophy—and those who.wished to see the condemned die—these 
were of hearts desirous of emotions. On this day M. d’Artagnan received 
his last instructions from the king, and made his adieus to his friends, the 
number of whom was, at the moment, reduced to Planchet, traced the 
-plan of his day, as every busy man whose moments are counted ought to 
do, because he appreciates their importance. ior 
“* My departure is to be,” said he, “at break of day, three o’clock in the 
morning ; I have then fifteen hours before me. Take from them the S1X 
hours of sleep which are indispensable for me—six; one hour for repasts 
—seven ; one hour for a farewell visit to Athos—eight ; two hours for 
chance circumstances—total, ten. There are then five hours left. One 
hour to get my money,—that is, to have payment refused by M. Fouquet; 
another hour to go and receive my money of M. Colhert, together with | 
his questions and grimaces ; one hour to look over my clothes and my 
arms, and get my boots cleaned. I have still two hours lett. _Mordiowx! 
how rich Iam!” And so saying, D’Artagnan felt a strang: joy, a joy of 
youth,.a perfume of those great and happy years of formertimes, mo”, \ 
into his brain and intoxicate him. “ During these two hours I willy» 
said the musketeer, “and take my quarter’s rent of the Image-de-* sass: 
Dame. That will be pleasant! Three hundred and seventsyfe livres : 
Mordioux / but that is astonishing! If the poor man whvas but one 
livre in his pocket, found a livre and twelve deniers, thatwould be jusncg , 
that would be excellent ; but never does such a God-smd fall to the lot 0 
the poor man. The rich man, on the contrary, maks himself revenues 
with his money, which he does not touch. Here aie three hundred a 


| THE CABARET. 271 
} 


. . 


seventy-five livres ene fall to me from heaven. I will go, then, to the 
image-de-Ndétre-Dame, and drink a glass of Spanish wine with my tenant, 
(which he cannot fail to offer me. But order must be observed, Monsieur 
/’Artagnan, order must be observed! Let us organise o1 time, then, and 
j:stribute the employment of it: Art. rst, Athos ; Art. 2n , the Image-de- 
jOtre-Dame ; Art. 3rd, M. Fouquet ; Art. 4th, M. Colbert ; ; Art. 5th, 
PPX ; Art. 6th, clothes, boots, horse, portmanteau ; Art. oth and last, 
Feep.” 

{ In consequence of this arrangement, D’Artagnan then went straight to 
me Comte de la Fére, to whom, modestly and ingenuously, he related a 
fart of his fortunate adventures. Athos had not been without uneasiness 
yn the subject of D’Artagnan’s visit to the king ; but few words sufficed 
is an explanation of that. Athos divined that Louis had charged D’Ar- 
agnan with some important mission, and did not even make an effort to 
'raw the secret from him. He only recommended him to take care of 
himself, and offered discreetly to accompany him, if that were desirable. 
 “ But, my dear friend,” said D’Artagnan, ‘‘ I am going nowhere.” 

} #8 What ! you come and bid me adieu, and are going nowhere ?” 

“Oh! yes, yes,” replied D’Artagnan, colouring a little, “I am going to 
fEske an acquisition.” 

c That is quite another thing. Then I change my formula. Instead of 
Do not yet yourself killed,’ I will say,—‘ Do not get yourself robbed.’ ” 

“ My friend, [ will inform you if I cast my eye upon any property that 
‘leases me, and shall expect you will favour me with your opinion.’ 

| “Yes, yes,” said Athos, too delicate to permit himself even the consola- 
on of asmile. Raoul imitated the paternal reserve. But D’Artagnan 
thought it would appear too mysterious to leave his friends under a pre- 
tence, without even telling them the route he was about to take. 

“ T have chosen Le Mans,” said he to Athos. “Is it a good country ?” 

“Excellent, my friend,” replied the comte, without making him observe 
that Le Mans was in the same direction as La Touraine, and that by wait- 
ing two days, at most, he might travel with a friend. But D’Artagnan, 
more embarrassed than the comte, dug, at every explanation, deeper into 
the mud, into which he sank by degrees. “I shall set out to-morrow at 
daybreak,” said he at last. “Till that time, will you come with me, 
Raoul ?” 

“Yes, monsieur le chevalier,” said the young man, “if monsieur le 
comte does not want me.” 

“No, Raoul ; I am to have an audience to-day of Monsieur, the king’s 
brother ; that is all I have todo.” . 

Raoul asked Grimaud for his sword, which the old man brought him 
immediately. ‘ Now, then,” added D’Artagnan, opening his arms to Athos, 
“Adieu, my dear friend!” Athos held him in a long embrace, and the 
musketeer, who knew his discretion so well, murmured in his ear,—“ An 
affair of state,” to which Athos only replied by a pressure of the hand, still 
more significant. They then separated. Raoul took the arm of his old 
friend, who led him along the Rue Saint-Honoré. “I am conducting you 
to the abode of the god Plutus,” said D’Artagnan to the young man ; 

“prepare yourself. The whole ‘day you will witness the piling-up of 
crowns. Good God ! how am I changed !” 

“Oh ! oh! what numbers of people there are in the street !” said Raoul. 
“Is there a procession to-day ?” asked D’Artagnan of a passer-by. 

** Monsieur, it is a hanging,” replied the man. 

What! a hanging at the Gréye ?” said D’Artagnan, 


272 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“ Yes, monsieur.” 

“ Devil take the rogue who gets himself hung the day I want to go an 
take my rent!’ cried D’Artagnan. ‘Raoul, did you ever see anybod 
hung ?” 

“ Never, monsieur—thank God !” 

“Oh! how young that sounds! If you were on guard in the trench 
as I was, and a spy——But, look you, pardon me, Raoul, I am doting 
you are quite right, it is a hideous sight to see a person hung! At wh 
hour do they hang, monsieur, if you please ?” 

“ Monsieur,” replied the stranger respectfully, delighted at joining co 
versation with two men of the sword; “it will take place about thr 
o’clock.” 

“Oh! oh! it is now only half-past one; let us step out, we shall b 
there in time to touch my three hundred and seventy-five livres, and g 
away before the arrival of the malefactor.” 

“ Malefactors, monsieur,” continued the dourgeors ; “there are two 
them.” 

“Monsieur, I return you many thanks,” said D’Artagnan, who, as 
grew older, had become polite to a degree. Drawing Raoul along, 
directed his course rapidly in the direction of La Gréve. Without #] 
great experience musketeers have of a crowd, to which were joined an ir 
sistible strength of wrist and an uncommon suppleness of shoulders, o 
two travellers would not have arrived at their place of destination. Th 
followed the line of the Quaz, which they had gained on quitting the R 
Saint-Honoré, where they left Athos. D’Artagnan went first : his elbo 
his wrist, his shoulder, formed three wedges which he knew how to in= 
sinuate with skill into the groups, to make them split and separate lik 
pieces of wood. He often made use of the hilt of his sword as an addi- 
tional help ; introducing it between ribs that were too rebellious, making it 
take the part of a lever or crowbar, to separate husband from wife, uncle 
from nephew, and brother from brother. And all this was done so natu- 
rally, and with such gracious smiles, that people must have had ribs of 
bronze not to cry, “Thank you !” when the wrist made its play; or hearts 
of diamond not to be enchanted when the bland smile enlivened the lips 
of the musketeer. Raoul, following his friend, cajoled the women, who 
admired his beauty, pushed back the men, who felt the rigidity of his 
muscles, and both opene... thanks to these manceuvres, the rather compact 
and rather muddy tide of the populace. They arrived in sight of the two 
gibbets, from which Raou! turned away his eyes in disgust. As for D’Ar-. 
tagnan, he did not even see them: his house, with its gabled roof, its 
windows crowded with the curious, attracted and even absorbed all the 
attention he was capable of. He distinguished, in the Place and around 
the houses, a good number of musketeers on leave, who, some with women, 
others with friends, awaited the moment of the ceremony. What rejoiced 
him above all was to see that his tenant, the cabaretzer, was so busy he 
did not know which way to turn himself. Three lads could not supply 
the drinkers. They filled the shop, the chambers, and the court even. 
D’Artagnan called Raoul’s attention to this concourse, adding: “ The 
fellow will have no excuse for not paying his rent. Lookat those drinkers, 
Raoul; one would say they were jolly companions. Mordioux/ why, 
there is no room anywhere!” D’Artagnan, however, contrived to catch 
hold of the master by the corner of his apron, and to make himself known | 
to him. ; 

“Ah, monsieur le chevalier!” said the cabaretier, half muzzy, “one 


THE CABARET | 273 


iinute, if you please ; I have here a hundred mad devils turning my 
ellar upside down.” 

“The cellar, if you like, but not the money«box.” 

“Oh, monsieur, your thirty-seven and a half pistoles are all counted out 
dy for you, upstairs in my chamber; but there are in that chamber 
rty customers, who are sucking the staves of a little barrel of Oporto 
ich I tapped for them this morning. Give me a minute—only a minute ?” 
‘So be it—so be it.” ) 

“T will go,” said Raoul, ina low voice, to D’Artagnan ; “this hilarity is 
e ee 

“Monsieur,” replied D’Artagnan, sternly, “you will please to remain 
here you are. The soldier ought to familiarise himself with all kinds of 
ectacles. There are in the eye, when it is young, fibres which we must 
arn how to harden ; and we are not truly generous and good but from 
e moment when the eye has become hardened, and the heart remains 
der. Besides, my little Raoul, would you leave me alone here? That 
uld be very ill of you. Look, there is yonder, in the lower court, a tree, 
under the shade of that tree we shall breathe more freely than in this 
atmosphere of spilt wine.” 

‘rom the spot on which they had placed themselves, the two new guests 
he Image de Notre-Dame heard the ever-increasing murmurs of the 
e of people, and lost neither a cry nora gesture of the drinkers at tables 
the cabaret or disseminated in the chambers. If D’Artagnan had wished 
place himself as a vedet¢te for an expedition, he could not have suc- 
eded better. The tree under which he and Raoul were seated covered 
em with its already thick foliage : it was a low, thick chestnut tree, with 
iclined branches, which cast their shade over a table so broken that the 
drinkers had abandoned it. We said that from this post D’Artagnan saw 
everything. He observed the goings and comings of the waiters, the ar- 
rival of fresh drinkers, the welcome, sometimes friendly, sometimes hostile, 
given to certain new-comers by certain others that were installed. He 
observed all this to amuse himself, for the thirty-seven and a half pistoles 
were a long time coming. Raoul recalled his attention toit. ‘‘ Monsieur,” 
saidhe, “you do not hurry your tenant, and the condemned will soon 
be here. There will then be such a press, we shall not be able to get 
out.” 

“You are right,” said the musketeer. “//o/d/ oh! somebody there ! 
Mordioux /? But it was in vain he cried and knocked upon the wreck of 
the old table, which fell to pieces beneath his fist ; nobody came. D’Ar- 
tagnan was preparing to go and seek the cadarefzer himself, to force him 
to a definite explanation, when the door of the court in which he was with 
Raoul, a door which communicated with the garden situated at the back 
opened, and a man dressed as a cavalier, with his sword in the sheath, 
but not at his belt, crossed the court without closing the door, and, having 
cast an oblique glance at D’Artagnan and his companion, directed his 
course towards the cabaret itself, looking about in all directions with eyes 
capable of piercing walls or consciences. ‘‘Humph !” said D’Artagnan, 
‘my tenants are communicating. That, no doubt, now, is some amateur 
in hanging matters.” At the same moment, the cries and disturbance in 
the upper chambers ceased. Silence, under such circumstances, sur- 
prises more than a twofold increase of noise. D’Artagnan wished to see 
what was the cause of this sudden silence. He then perceived that this 
man, dressed as a cavalier, had just entered the principal chamber, and 


was haranguing the tipplers, who all listened to him with the oreaicet at- 
I 


274. : THE VICOMTE DE BRACELONNE, 


tention. D’Artagnan would perhaps have heard his speech but for tl 
dominant noise of the popular clamours, which made a formidable accon! 
paniment to the harangue of the orator. But it was soon finished, and a, 
the people the caéaret contained came out, one after the other, in litt 
groups, so that there only remained six in the chamber. One of these ¢ 
the man with the sword, took the cadaretier aside, engaging him in ¢ 
course more or less serious; whilst the others lit a great fire in / 
chimney-place—a circumstance rendered strange by the fine weather a 
the heat. 

“It is very singular,” said D’Artagnan to Raoul, ‘‘ but I think I kn 
those faces yonder.” . 

“ Don’t you think you can smell the smoke here ?” said Raoul. 

“T rather think I can smell a conspiracy,” replied D’Artagnan. 

He had not finished speaking, when four of these men came down i 
the court, and, without the appearance of any bad design, mounted gu 
at the door of communication, casting, at intervals, glances at D’Artagn 
which signified many things. 

“ Mordtoux ! said D’Artagnan, in a low voice, “there is someth 
going on. Are you curious, Raoul ?” 

“ According to the subject, chevalier.” 

“Well, I am as curious as an old woman. Come a little more in fro 
we shall get a better view of the place. I would lay a wager that view 
be something curious.” 

“But you know, monsieur le chevalier, that I am not willing to beco 
a passive and indifferent spectator of the death of the two poor devils.’{_~ 

‘And I, then!—do you think I am a savage? We will go in aga, 
when it is time to do so. Come along!” And they made their way te 
wards the front of the house, and placed themselves near the window, 
which, still more strangely than the rest, remained unoccupied. ‘The two 
last drinkers, instead of looking out at this window, kept up the fire. On 
seeing D’Artagnan and his friend enter :—“ Ah! ah! a reinforcement,” 
murmured they. 

D’Artagnan jogged Raoul’s elbow. “Yes, my braves, a reinforce- 
ment,” said he: “cordieu / there is a famous fire. Whom are you going 
to cook ?” 

The two men uttered a shout of jovial laughter, and, instead of 
answering, threw on more wood. D’Artagnan could not take his eyes 
off them. | 

““T suppose,” said one of the fire-makers, “they sent you to tell us the 
time,—did not they ?” 

“Without doubt, they have,” said D’Artagnan, anxious to know what 
was going on; “why should I be here else, if it were not for that ” 

“Then place yourself at the window, if you please, and observe.” 
D’Artagnan smiled in his moustache, made a sign to Raoul, and placed 
himself at the window. 


Soe ees 


CHAPTER LXII, 
VIVE COLBERT ! 


THE spectacle which the Gréve now presented was a frightful one. ‘ 
The heads, levelled by the perspective, extended afar, thick and agitated 
as the ears of corn in a vast plain. From time to time, a fresh report, or 
a distant rumour, made the heads oscillate and thousands of eyes flash, 


\ 


VIVE COLBERT! | 275 


Now and then there were great movements. All those ears of corn bent, 
‘and became waves more agitated than those of the ocean, which rolled 
from the extremities to the centre, and beat, like the tides, against the 
edge of archers who surrounded the gibbets. Then the handles of the 
alberds were let fall upon the heads and shoulders of the rash invaders ; 
t times, also, it was the steel as well as the wood, and, in that case, a 
arge empty circle was formed around the guard ; aspace conquered upon 
ne extremities, which underwent, in their turn, the oppression of the 
sudden movement, which drove them against the parapets of the Seine. 
ro:n the window, that commanded a view of the whole Place, D’Artag- 
nan saw, with interior satisfaction, that such of the musketeers and guards 
as found themselves involved in the crowd, were able, with blows of their 
fists and the hilts of their swords, to keep room. He even remarked that 
hey had succeeded, by that esprit de corps which doubles the strength of 
he soldier, in getting together in one group to the amount of about fifty 
en ; and that, with the exception of a dozen stragglers whom he still saw 
rolling here and there, the nucleus was complete, and within reach of his 
roice. But it was not the musketeers and guards only that drew the at- 
ntion of D’Artagnan. Around the gibbets, and particularly at the 
ntrances to the arcade of Saint-Jean, moved a noisy mass, a busy mass ; 
aring faces, resolute demeanours were to be seen here and there, mingled 
ith silly faces and indifferent demeanours ; signals were exchanged, 
ands given and taken. D’Artagnan remarked among the groups, and 
hose groups the most animated, the face of the cavalier whom he had 
seen enter by the door of communication from his garden, and who had 
gone upstairs to harangue the drinkers. That man was organizing troops 
and giving orders. ‘“ Mordioux /” said D’Artagnan to himself, “I was 
not deceived ; I know that man,—it is Menneville. What the devil is he 
doing here ?” 

A distant murmur, which became more distinct by degrees, stopped this 
reflection, and drew his attention another way. This murmur was occa- 
sioned by the arrival of the culprits ; a strong picket of archers precede’ 
them, and appeared at the angle of the arcade. The whole entire crowy; 
now joined as if in one cry ; all the cries united, formed one immense howl. 
D’Artagnan saw Raoul was becoming pale, and he slapped him roughly 
on the shoulder. The fire-keepers turned round on hearing the great cry, 
and asked what was going on. “ The condemned are arrived,” said D’Ar- 
tagnan. “ That’s well,” replied they, again replenishing the fire. D’Artag- 
nan looked at them with much uneasiness ; it was evident that these men 
who were making such a fire for no apparent purpose had some strange 
intentions. The condemned appeared upon the Place. They were walking, 
the executioner before them, whilst fifty archers formed a hedge on their 
right and their left. Both were dressed in black: they appeared pale but 
firm. They looked impatiently over the people’s heads, standing on tip- 
toe at every step. D’Artagnan remarked this. “ Mordioux!” cried he, 
*“‘ they are in a great hurry to get a sight of the gibbet !” Raoul drew back, 
without, however, having the power to leave the window. Terror even has 
its attractions. 

“To the death ! tothe death |” cried fifty-thousand voices. 

“Yes, to the death !” howled a hundred frantic others, as if the great 
mass had given them the reply. 

“To the halter ! to ihe halter !” cried the great whole; “ Vive ée rat?’ 

“Well,” said D’Artagnan, “ this is droll; I should have thought it was 
M. Colbert who had caused them to be hung.” é 

Io-—-2 


246 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


There was, at this moment, a great rolling movement in the crowd 
which stopped for a moment the march of the condemned. The people o! 
a bold and resolute mien, whom D’Artagnan had observed, by dint ot 
pressing, pushing, and lifting themselves up, had succeeded in almot 
touching the hedge of archers. The cortége resumed its march. All | 
once, to cries of “Vzve Colbert !” those men, of whom D’Artagnan nev: 
lost sight, fell upon the escort, which in vain endeavoured to stand again 
them. Behind these men was the crowd. Then commenced, amidst? 
frightful tumult, as frightful a confusion. This time, there were somé 
thing more than cries of expectation or cries of joy, there were cries 
pain. Halberts struck men down, swords ran them through, musket 
were discharged at them. The confusion became then so great that D’Ar 
tagnan could no longer distinguish anything. ‘Then, from this chaos, sud 
denly surged something like a visible intention, like a will pronounce 
The condemned had been torn from the hands of the guards, and wer 
being dragged towards the house of L’Image-de-Notre-Dame. Those w 
dragged them shouted “ ’zve Colbert !”? The people hesitated, not kno 
ing which they ought to fall upon, the archers or the aggressors. Wh 
stopped the people was, that those who cried “ Vzve Colbert !” began 
cry, at the same time, “No halter! no halter! to the fire! to the fir 
burn the thieves! burn the extortioners !” This cry, shouted with 
ensemble, obtained enthusiastic success. The populace had come to w 
ness an execution, and here was an opportunity offered them of perfor 
ing one themselves. It was this that must be most agreeable to the pop 
lace ; therefore, they ranged themselves immediately on the party of th 
aggressors against the archers, crying with the minority, which had be . 
come, thanks to them, the most compact majority. “ Yes, yes ; to the fire 
with the thieves! Vzve Colbert !” 

“ Mordioux |” exclaimed D’Artagnan, “this begins to look serious.” 

One of the men who remained near the chimney approached the win- 
dow, a fire-brand in his hand. “Ah, ah?” said he, “it gets warm.” 
‘Then, turning to his companion, “ There is the signal,” added he; and he 
immediately applied the burning brand to the wainscoting. Now, this 
cabaret of the Image-de-Notre-Dame was not a very newly-built house ; 
and, therefore, did not require much entreating to take fire. Ina second 
the boards began to crackle, and the flames arose sparkling to the ceiling. 
A howling from without replied to the shouts of the incendiaries. D’Ar- 
tagnan, who had not seen what passed, from being engaged at the window, 
felt, at the same time, the smoke which choked him and the fire that 
scorched him. “ Ho/d!” cried he, turning round, “is the fire here? Are 
you drunk or mad, my masters ?” 

The two men looked at each other with an air of astonishment. “In 
what?” asked they of D’Artagnan ; “was it not a thing agreed upon ?”” 

“A thing agreed upon that you should burn my house !” vociferated 
D’Artagnan, snatching the brand from the hand of the incendiary, and 
striking him with it across the face. The second wanted to assist his 
comrade, but Raoul, seizing him by the middle, threw him out of the 
window, whilst D’Artagnan pushed his man down the stairs. Raoul, first 
disengaged, tore the burning wainscoting down, and threw it flaming into 
the chamber. At a glance, D’Artagnan saw there was nothing to be 
feared from the fire, and sprang to the window. The disorder was at its 
height. The air wa; filled with simultaneous cries of “To the fire !” “To | 
the death !” “ To the halter !” “To the stake !” “ Vive Colbert !” “ Vive Lz 
voz /* The group which had forced the culprits from the hands of the 


VIVE COLBERT! 277 


chers had drawn close to the house, which appeared to be the goal to- 
ards which they dragged them. Menneville was at the head of this group, 
houting louder than all the others, “‘ To the fire! to the fire! Vzve Col- 
rt!” D’Artagnan began to comprehend what was meant. They wanted 
burn the condemned, and his house was to serve as a funeral pile. ‘* Halt 
re !” cried he, sword in hand, and one foot upon the window. “ Menne- 
le, what do you want to do?” 
“ Monsieur D’Artagnan,” cried the latter ; “give way, give way !” 
“To the fire! to the fire with the thieves? Vzve Colbert !” 
These cries exasperated D’Artagnan. ‘“ Mordtoux/ said he. “ What } 
rn the poor devils who are only condemned to be hung? that is in- 
mous !” 
Before the door, however, the mass of anxious spectators, rolled back 
gainst the walls, had become more thick, and closed up the way. Men- 
eville and his men, who were dragging along the culprits, were within 
n paces of the door. 
penpennls made a last effort. “Passage! passage!” cried he, pistol 
and. 
“ Burn them ! burn them!” repeated the crowd. “ The Image-de-Notre- 
ame is on fire! Burn the thieves! burn the monopolists in the Image- 
-Ndtre-Dame !” 
IThere now remained no d-ubt, it was plainly D’Artagnan’s house that 
s their object. D’Artagnan remembered the old cry, always so effec- 
e from his mouth: “A woz, mousguetaires /”? shouted he, with the voice 
a giant, with one of those voices which dominate over cannon, the sea, 
e tempest. “A mot, mousguetaires /” And suspending himself by the 
1m from the balcony, he allowed himself to drop amidst the crowd, which 
began to draw back from a house that rained men. Raoul was on the 
ground as soon as he, both sword in hand. All the musketeers on the 
Place heard that challenging cry—all turned round at that cry, and recog-~ 
nized D’Artagnan. “ T6 the captain, to the captain !” cried they, in their 
turn. And the crowd opened before them as if before the prow of a vessel. 
At that moment D’Artagnan and Menneville found themselves face to face. 
“Passage, passage !” cried Menneville, seeing that he was within an arm’s 
length of the door. 

“No one passes here,” said D’Artagnan. 

“Take that, then!” said Menneville, firing his pistol, almost within 
touch. But before the cock had dropped, D’Artagnan had struck up Men- 
neville’s arm with the hilt of his sword, and passed the blade through his 
body. 

“T told you plainly to keep yourself quiet,” said D’Artagnan to Menne- 
ville, who rolled at his feet. 

“ Passage ! passage !” cried the companions of Menneville, at first terri- 
fied, but soon recovering, when they found they had only to do with two 
men. But those two men were hundred-armed giants: the sword flies 
about in their hands like the burning g/azve of the archangel. It pierces 
with its point, strikes with its back, cuts with its edge ; every stroke brings 
down its man. “For the king !” cried D’Artagnan, to every man he struck 
at, that is to say, to every man that fell. This cry became the charging 
word for the musketeers, who, guided by it, joined D’Artagnan. During 
this time the archers, recovering from the panic they had undergone, charge 
the aggressors inthe rear, and regular as mill-strokes, overturn or knock 
down all that oppose them. The crowd, which sees swords gleaming, and 
drops of blood flying in the air—the crowd falls back, and crushes itself, 


255 - THK VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


At length cries for mercy and of despair resound ; that is, the farewell o 
the vanquished. The two condemned are again in the hands of the archers. 
D’Artagnan approaches them, and seeing them pale and sinking: “ Con- 
sole yourselves, poor men,” said he, “ you will not undergo the frightfu 
torture with which these wretches threatened you. The king has condemne 
you to be hung: you shall only be hung. Go on, hang them, and it wi 
be over.” 

There is no longer anything going on at the Image-de-Notre-Dam 
The fire has been extinguished with two tuns of wine in default of wate 
The conspirators have fled by the garden. The archers were draggin 
the culprits to the gibbets. From this moment the affair did not occup 
much time. The executioner, heedless about operating according to the 
rules of art, made such haste, that he despatched the condemned in 
minute. In the meantime, the people gathered around D’Artagnan—the 
felicitated, they cheered him. He wiped his brow, streaming with swea 
and his sword, streaming with blood. He shrugged his shoulders at see 
ing Menneville writhing at his feet in the last convulsions ; and, whil 
Raoul turned away his eyes in compassion, he pointed up to the musk 
teers the gibbets laden with their melancholy fruit. ‘“ Poor devils !” sai 
he, “I hope they died blessing me, for I saved them narrowly.” Th 
words caught the ear of Menneville, at the moment when he himself wz 
breathing his last sigh. A dark, ironical smile flitted across his lips ; 
wished to reply, but the effort hastened the snapping of the chord of li 
—he expired. 

“Oh! all this is very frightful!’ murmured Raoul: “let us be gon 
monsieur le chevalier.” 

“ You are not wounded ?” asked D’Artagnan. 

** Not at all ; thank you.” 

*That’s well! Thou art a brave fellow, szordioux/ The head of the 
father, and the arm of Porthos. Ah! if he had been here, that Porthos, 
you would have seen something worth looking at.” 

Then, as if by way of remembrance,— 

. “But where the devil can that brave Porthos be?” murmured D’Artag- 
nan. . 
“ Come, chevalier, pray come!” urged Raoul. . 

“One minute, my friend; let me take my thirty-seven and a half pis- 
toles, and I shall be at your service. The house is a good property,” added 
D’Artagnan, as he entered the Image-de-Notre-Dame, “but decidedly, 
even if it were less profitable, I should prefer its being in another, 
quarter,” | 


ip 


CRAPTER GALEG 


-HOW THE DIAMOND OF M. D’EYMERIS PASSED INTO THE HANDS OF 
M. D’ARTAGNAN., 


WHILST this violent, noisy, and bloody scene was passing on the Gréve, 
several men, barricaded behind the gate of communication with the gar- 
den, replaced their swords in their sheaths, assisted one among them to 
mount a ready saddled horse which was waiting in the garden, and like a 
flock of terrified birds, fled away in all directions, some climbing the walls, 
others rushing out at the gates, with all the fury of a panic. He who 
mounted the horse, and who gave him the spur so sharply that the animal 
was near leaping the wall, this cavalier, we say, crossed the Place Bau- 


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THE DIAMOND OF M. DEYVMERIS, 279° 


oyer, passed like lightning before the crowd in the streets, riding against, 
nning over, and knocking down all that came in his way, and, ten 
inutes after, arrived at the gates of the surintendant, more out of breath 
an his horse. The Abbé Fouquet, at the clatter of the hoofs on the 
vement, appeared at a window of the. court, and before even the cavalier 
d set foot to the ground, “ Well! Danecamp ?” cried he, leaning half 
t at the window. 

“Well, it is all over,” replied the cavalier. 

* All over !” cried the abbé ; “ then they are saved ?” 

“ No, monsieur,” replied the cavalier, “ they are hung.” 

“Hung !” repeated the abbé, turning pale. A lateral door suddenly 
pened, and Fouquet appeared in the chamber, pale, distracted, with lips 
alf opened, breathing a cry of grief and anger. He stopped upon the 
nreshold to listen to what was addressed from the court to the window. 

“ Miserable wretches !” said the abbé, “you did not fight, then ?” 

“ Like lions.” 

“ Say like cowards.” 

* Monsieur !” 

* A hundred men accustomed to war, sword in hand, are worth ten thou- 
d archers in a surprise. Where is Menneville, that boaster, that 
aggart, who was to come back either dead or a conqueror ?” 

‘Well, monsieur, he has kept his word ; he is dead !” 

* Dead! Who killed him ?” 

“A demon, disguised as a man, a giant armed with ten flaming swords, 
madman, who at one blow extinguished the fire, extinguished the riot, 
nd caused a hundred musketeers to rise up out of the pavement of the 
lace de Greve.” 

Fouquet raised his brow, streaming with sweat, murmuring, “ Oh! 
Lyodot and D’Eymeris! dead! dead! dead! and I dishonoured.” 

The abbé turned round, and perceiving his brother despairing and livid, 
“Come, come,” said he, “it is a blow of fate, monsieur; we must not 
lament thus. As it is not effected, it is because God——” 

“Be silent, abbé! be silent!” cried Fouquet ; “ your excuses are blas- 
phemies. Order that man up here, and let him relate the details of this 
horrible event.” 

* But, brother p 

“Obey, monsieur !” 

The abbé made a sign, and in half a minute the step of the man was 
heard upon the stairs. At the same time Gourville appeared behind Fou- 
quet, like the guardian angel of the surintendant, pressing one finger upon 
his lips to enjoin observation even amidst the bursts of his grief. ‘The 
minister resumed all the serenity that human strength could leave at the 
disposal of a heart half broken with sorrow. Danecamp appeared. 

“ Make your report,” said Gourville. 

“ Monsieur,” replied the messenger, “‘ we received orders to carry off the 
prisoners, and to cry ‘ Vzve Colbert ! whilst carrying them off.” 

“To burn them alive, was it not, abbé ?” interrupted Gourville. 

“Yes, yes, the order was given to Menneville. Menneville knew what 
was to be done, and Menneville is dead.” This news appeared rather to 
reassure Gourville than to sadden him. 

“Yes, certainly, to burn them alive,” said the abbé, eagerly. 

“Granted, monsieur, granted,” said the man, looking into the eyes and 
the faces of the two interlocutors, to ascertain what there was profitable or 
disadvantageous to himself in telling the truth, 


280 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


‘“¢ Now proceed,” said Gourville. 

“The prisoners,” continued Danecamp, “were brought to the Gréve, 
and the people, in a fury, insisted upon their being burnt instead of being? 
hung.” 

“And the people were right,” said the abbé. “Go on.” 

“ But,” resumed the man, “at the moment the archers were broken, ¢ 
the moment the fire was set to one of the houses of the Place, destined 1 
serve as a funeral-pile for the guilty, the fury, the demon, the giant @ 
whom I told you, and who, we had been informed, was the proprietor | 
the house in question, aided by a young man who accompanied him, thre 
out of the window those who kept up the fire, called to his assistance thé 
musketeers who were in the crowd, leaped himself from the window of the 
first story into the place, and plied his sword so desperately that the vic 
tory was restored to the archers, the prisoners were retaken, and Menne 
ville killed. When once recaptured, the condemned were executed in threq 
minutes.” Fouquet, in spite of his selfcommand, could not prevent a deey 
groan from escaping him. / 

“ And this man, the proprietor of the house, what is his name ?” said thi 
abbé. 

“‘T cannot tell you, never having been able to get sight of him ; my po! 
had been appointed in the garden, and I remained at my post ; only t 
affair was related to me as I repeat it. I was ordered, when once the thin 
was ended, to come at best speed and announce to you the manner i 
which it finished. According to this order, I set out, full gallop, and her 
I am.” 

“Very well, monsieur, we have nothing else to ask of you,” said thé 
abbé, more and more dejected, in proportion as the moment approached 
for finding himself alone with his brother. 

“Have you been paid ?” asked Gourville. 

“ Partly, monsieur,” replied Danecamp. 

“‘ Here are twenty pistoles. Begone, monsieur, and never forget to de- 
fend, as this time has been done, the true interests of the king.” 

“Yes, monsieur,” said the man, bowing and pocketing the money. After 
which he went out. Scarcely had the door closed after him when Fouquet, 
who had remained motionless, advanced with a rapid step, and stood be- 
tween the abbé and Gourville. Both of them at the same instant opened 
their mouths to speak to him. ‘“ No excuses,” said he, “no recriminations 
against anybody. IfI had not been a false friend, I should not have con- 
fided. to any one the care of delivering Lyodot and D’Eymeris. I alone 
am guilty ; to me alone are reproaches and remorse due. Leave me, abbé.” 

“And yet, monsieur, you will not prevent me,” replied the latter, “ from 
endeavouring to find out the miserable fellow who has intervened for the 
advantage of M. Colbert, in this so well-arranged affair ; for, if it is good 
policy to love our friends dearly, I do not believe that is bad which con- 
sists in pursuing our enemies with inveteracy.” 

“A truce to policy, abbé; be gone, I beg of you, and do not let me hear 
any more of you till I send for you; what we most need is circumspection 
and silence. You have a terrible example before you, gentlemen ; no re- 
prisals, I forbid them.” 

“‘ There are no orders,” grumbled the abbé, ‘‘ which will prevent me from 
avenging a family affront upon the guilty person.” 4 
“And I,” cried Fouquet, in that imperative tone to which one feels there 
is nothing to reply, “if you entertain one thought, one single thought, 
which is not the absolute expression of my will, I will have you cast into 


THE DIAMOND OF M. DEYMERSS, 281 


e Bastille, two hours after that thought has manifested itself. Regulate 
our conduct accordingly, abbé.” 

The abbé coloured and bowed. Fouquet made a sign to Gourville to 
pllow him, and was already directing his steps towards his cabinet, when 
e usher announced with a loud voice: ‘Monsieur le Chevalier 
rtagnan.” 

“Who is he ?” said Fouquet negligently to Gourville. 

“ An ex-lieutenant of his majesty’s musketeers,” replied Gourville, in the 
me tone. Fouquet did not even take the trouble to reflect, and resumed 
is walk, “I beg your pardon, monseigneur !” said Gourville, “but I 
ave remembered ; this brave man has quitted the king’s service, and 
robably comes to receive a quarter of some pension or other.” 

“ Devil take him !” said Fouquet, “ why does he choose his time so ill ?” 
“Permit me then, monseigneur, to announce your refusal to him ; for 
is one of my acquaintance, and is a man whom, in our present circum- 
ances, it would be better to have as a friend than an enemy.” 

“* Answer him as you please,” said Fouquet. 

“Eh! good Lord !” said the abbé, still full of malice, like an egotistical 
n; “tell him there is no money, particularly for musketeers.” 

ut scarcely had the abbé uttered this imprudent speech, when the 
rtly-open door was thrown back, and D’Artagnan appeared. 

‘Eh! Monsieur Fouquet,” said he, “I was well aware there was no 
ney for musketeers here. Therefore I did not come to obtain any, but 
have it refused. That being done, receive my thanks. I give you 
od-day, and will go and seek it at M. Colbert’s.” And he went out, 
ter making an easy bow. 

“ Gourville,” said Fouquet, “run after that man and bring him back.” 
Gourville obeyed, and overtook D’Artagnan on the stairs. D’Artagnan, 
hearing steps behind him, turned round and perceived Gourville. ‘“ AZor- 
dioux / my dear monsieur,” said he, “these are sad lessons which you 
gentlemen of finance teach us ;—I come to M. Fouquet, to receive a sum 
accorded by his majesty, and I am received like a mendicant who comes 
to ask. charity, or like a thief who comes to steal a piece of plate.” 

“But you pronounced the name of M. Colbert, my dear Monsieur 
d’Artagnan ; you said you were going to M. Colbert’s ?” 

“TI certainly am going there, were it only to ask satisfaction of the 
people who try to burn houses, crying ‘ Vzve Colbert !” 

Gourville pricked up his ears. ‘Oh, oh !” said he, “ you allude to what 
has just happened at the Gréve ?”?-—“‘ Yes, certainly.” 

“ And in what did that which has taken place concern you ?” 

“What! do you ask me whether it concerns me, or does not concern 
me, if M. Colbert pleases to make a funeral-pile of my house ?” 

“* So, your house——was it your house they wanted to burn ?? 

“ Pardieu / was it !” 

“Ts the cabaret of the Image-de-Nétre-Dame yours, then?” 

“Tt has been this week.” 

“Well, then, are you the brave captain, are you the valiant blade, who 
dispersed those who wished to burn the condemned ?” 

“* My dear Monsieur Gourville, put yourself in my place; I am an agent 
of the public force and a proprietor. As a captain, it is my duty to have 
\the orders of the king accomplished. As a proprietor, it is my interest my 
house should not be burnt. I have then at the same time attended to the 
laws of interest and duty in replacing Messrs, Lyodot and D’Eymeris in 
the hands of the archers.” 


282 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


. “Then it was you who threw the man out of the window ?”? 

“It was 1, myself,” replied D’Artagnan, modestly, 

_ “ And you who killed Menneyille ?” 

“I had that misfortune,” said D’Artagnan, bowing like a man who j 
being congratulated. 

“It was you then, in short, who caused the two condemned persons 
be hung ?” 

“Instead of being burnt, yes, monsieur, and I am proud of it. I sav 
the poor devils from horrible tortures. Understand, my dear Monsieur 
Gourville, that they wanted to burn them alive! It exceeds imagination § 

“Go, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan, go,” said Gourville, anxious t 
spare Fouquet the sight of a man who had just caused him such profoun 

rief. 
“No,” said Fouquet, who had heard all from the door of the ant 
chamber ; “not so; on the contrary, Monsieur d’Artagnan, come in.” 

D’Artagnan wiped from the hilt of his sword a last bloody trace, whic 
had escaped his notice, and returned. He then found himself face to fa 
with these three men, whose countenances wore very different expression 
with the abbé it was anger, with Gourville it was stupor, with Fouquet 
was dejection. 

“Tl beg your pardon, monsieur le ministre,” said D’Artagnan, “but 1 
time is short; I have to go to the office of the intendant, to have an e 
planation with Monsieur Colbert, and to take my quarter’s pension.” 

“ But, monsieur,” said Fouquet, “there is money here.” D’Artagna 
looked at the surintendant with astonishment. ‘You have been answere 
inconsiderately, monsieur, I know, because I heard it,” said the minister 
“aman of your merit ought to be known by everybody.” D’Artagnai 
bowed. ‘Have you an order?” added Fouquet. | 

Ves, monsieur.” | 

“Give it me, I will pay you myself; come with me.” He made a sign 
to Gourville and the abbé, who remained in the chamber where they were. 
He led D’Artagnan into his cabinet. As soon as the door was shut, 
‘How much is due to you, monsieur ?” 

“Why, something like five thousand livres, monseigneur.” 

“For your arrears of pay?” 

~“ For a quarter’s pay.” 

“A quarter consisting of five thousand livres !” said Fouquet, fixing upon 
the musketeer a searching look. ‘Does the king, then, give you twenty | 
thousand livres a year ?” a 

“Yes, monseigneur, twenty thousand livres a year ; do you think it is 
too much ?” 

“T >?” cried Fouquet, and he smiled bitterly. “If I had any knowledge 
of mankind, if I were—instead of being a frivolous, inconsequent, and vain 
spirit—of a prudent and reflective spirit ; if, in a word, I had, as certain 
persons have known how, regulated my life, you would not receive twenty 
thousand lives a year, but a hundred thousand, and you would not belong 
to the king but to me.” 

D’Artagnan coloured slightly. There is in the manner in which an 
eulogium is given, in the voice of the eulogizer, in his affectionate tone, a 
poison so sweet, that the strongest mind is sometimes intoxicated by it. 
The surintendant terminated this speech by opening a drawer, and taking 
from it four vowleaux, which he placed before D’Artagnan. The Gascon 
openedone. “ Gold!” said he. 

“Tt will be less burdensome, monsieur.” 


THE DIAMOND OF M. D’EYMERIS, 283 


“But then, monsieur, these make twenty thousand livres,” 
* No doubt they do.” 
* But only five are due to me.” 
“ T wish to spare you the trouble of coming four times to my office,” 
“You overwhelm me, monsieur.” 
“TI do only what I ought to do, monsieur le chevalier ; and I hope you 
ll not bear me any malice on account of the rude reception my brother 
ive you. He is of a sour, capricious disposition.” 
' Monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, “believe me nothing would grieve me 
hore than an excuse from you.” 

“Therefore I will make no more, and will content myself with asking 
ou a favour.” 

“Oh, monsieur.” 

Fouquet drew from his finger a ring worth about a thousand pistoles. 
Monsieur,” said he, “this stone was given me by a friend of my child- 
od, by a man to whom you have rendered a great service.” 
** A service—I ?” said the musketeer ; “ I have rendered a service to one 
your friends ?” 
“You cannot have forgotten it, monsieur, for it dates this very day.” 
“And that friend’s name was p3 
* M. d’Eymeris.” 
“One of the condemned ?” 
“Yes, one of the victims. Well! Monsieur d’Artagnan, in return for 
e service you have rendered him, I beg you to accept this diamond, Do 
for my sake.” 
* Monsieur! you 
“Accept it, I say. To-day is with me a day of mourning ; hereafter you 
ill, perhaps, learn why ; to-day I have lost one friend ; well, I will try to 
t another.” 

/“ But, Monsieur Fouquet 4 

'“ Adieu! Monsieur d’Artagnan, adieu !” cried Fouquet, with much 
emotion ; “or rather, az revoir.” And the minister quitted the cabinet, 
leaving in the hands of the musketeer the ring and the twenty thousand 
livres. 

“Oh! oh!” said D’Artagnan, after a moment’s dark reflection. Do 

I understand what this means? J/ordioux! I can understand so far, 
he is a gallant man; I will go and explain matters with M, Colbert,” 
And he went out. 


” 


a 


CHAPTER. .LAIW, 


OF THE NOTABLE DIFFERENCE D’ARTAGNAN FINDS BETWEEN MONSIEUR 
THE INTENDANT AND MONSIEUR THE SURINTENDANT. 


M. COLBERT resided Rue Neuve des Petits-champs, in a house which had 
beionged to Beautru. The legs of D’Artagnan cleared the distance in a 
short quarter of an hour. When he arrived at the residence of the new 
favourite, the court was full of archers and police-people, who came to 
congratulate him, or to excuse themselves, according to whether he should 
choose to praise or blame. The sentiment of flattery is instinctive among 
people of abject condition ; they have the sense of it, as the wild animal 
has that of hearing and smell. These people, or their leader, had then 
understood that there was a pleasure to offer to M. Colbert, in rendering 
him-an account of the fashion in which his name had been pronounced 


284 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


during the rash enterprise of the morning. D’Artagnan made his appear; * 
ance just as the chief of the watch was giving his report. D?Artagna 
stood close to the door, behind the archers. That officer took Colbert o 
one side, in spite of his resistance and the contraction of his great ey 
brows. “In case,” said he, “you really desired, monsieur, that the peop 
should do justice on the two traitors, it would have been wise to warn 
of it; for indeed, monsieur, in spite of our regret at displeasing you, 
thwarting your views, we had our orders to execute.” iy } 
“Triple fool !” replied Colbert, furiously shaking his hair, thick i 
black as a mane; “what are you telling me there?) What! that I could 
have had an idea of a riot! Are you mad or drunk ?” 


“But, monsieur, they cried ‘Vzve Colbert?” replied the tremblin 
watch. 

“ A handful of conspirators 

“No, no ; a mass of people.” 

“Ah! indeed,” said Colbert, expanding. ‘ A mass of people cried ‘Vzv 
Colbert Are you certain of what you say, raonsieur ?” | 

“We had nothing to do but to open our ears, or rather to close them, ; 


” 


terrible were the cries.” 

“‘ And this was from the people, the real people ?” 

“Certainly, monsieur ; only these real people beat us.” 

“Oh! very well,” continued Colbert, thoughtfully. ‘“ Then you suppos 
it was the people alone who wished to burn the condemned ”” | 

“Oh! yes, monsieur !” 

“ That is quite another thing. You strongly resisted, then ?” 

“We had three men stifled, monsieur.” 

“But you killed nobody yourselves ?” 

“‘ Monsieur, a few of the rioters were left upon the square, and one amon 
them was not a common man.” 

“Who was he ?” * 

“A certain Menneville, upon whom the police have a long time had an 
e e,” 2 _ 
ee Menneville !” cried Colbert, “ what, he who killed, Rue de la Hochetts, 
a worthy man who wanted a fat fowl !” 

“*'Yes, monsieur ; the same.” 

And did this Menneville also cry, ‘ Vzve Colbert !’ ” 

- “Louder than all the rest ; like a madman.” 

The brow of Colbert became cloudy and wrinkled. A kind of ambitiou, 
glory which had lighted his face was extinguished, like the light of those 
glow-worms which we crush beneath ‘he grass. “What then do you say,’ 
resumed the deceived intendant, “that the initiative came from the people ! 
Menneville was my enemy ; I would have had him hung, and he knew it 
well. Menneville belonged to the Albé Fouquet—all the affair origi 
nated with Fouquet ; does not everybody know that the condemned were 
his friends from childhood ?” 

“That is true,” thought D’Artagnan, “ And there are all my doubts 
cleared up. I repeat it, Monsieur Fouquet may be what they please, but 
he is a gentlemanly man.” 

“And,” continued Colbert, “are you quite sure Menneville is dead ?” 

D’Artagnan thought the time was come for him to make his appearance. 
“ Perfectly, monsieur,” replied he, advancing suddenly. 

“Oh! is that you, monsieur?” said Colbert. 

“In person,” replied the musketeer, with his deliberate tone, “ it appear: 
that you had in Menneville a pretty little enemy,” XA 


THE INTENDANT AND THE SURINTENDANT. 285 

(t was not I, monsieur, who had an enemy,” replied Colbert ; “it was 
king.” 

Double brute !” thought D’Artagnan, “to think to play the great man 
the hypocrite with me. Well,” continued he to Colbert, “I am very 
py to have rendered so good a service to the king ; will you take upon 
to tell his majesty, monsieur l’intendant ?” 

What commission do you give me, and what do you charge me to tell 
majesty, monsieur? Be precise, if you please,” said Colbert, in a sharp 
e, tuned beforehand to hostility. 

I give you no commission,” replied D’Artagnan, with that calmness 
ch never abandons the banterer. ‘I thought it would be easy for you 
nnounce to his majesty that it was I, who, being there by chance, did 
ice upon Menneville, ana restored things to order.” 
‘olbert opened his eyes, and interrogated the chief of the watch with 
ok—‘ Ah ! it is very true,” said the latter, “that this gentleman saved 


What did you tell me, monsieur, that you are come to relate me this ” 
1 Colbert with envy ; “everything is explained, and better for you than 
any other.” 
You are in error, monsieur lintendant, I did not at all come for the 
pose of relating that to you.” 
‘It is an exploit, nevertheless.” 
‘Oh !” said the musketeer carelessly, “constant habit blunts the 
id.” 
‘To what do I owe the honour of your visit, then ?” 
‘Simply to this: the king ordered me to come to you.” 
‘Ah !” said Colbert, recovering himself, because he saw D’Artagnan 
w a paper from his pocket ; “it is to demand some money of me?” 
‘Precisely, monsieur.” 
‘Have the goodness to wait, if you please, monsieur, till I have de- 
itched the report of the watch.” 
)’Artagnan turned round upon his heel, insolently enough, and finding 
aself face to face with Colbert, after this first turn, he bowed to him as 
arlequin would have done ; then, after a second evolution, he directed 
steps towards the door in quick time. Colbert was struck with his 
nted rudeness, to which he was not accustomed. In general, men of 
. sword, when they came to his office, had such a want of money, that 
ugh their feet had taken root in the marble, they would not have lost 
ir patience. Was D’Artagnan going straight to the king? Would he 
and describe his bad reception, or recount his exploit? This was a 
ve matter of consideration. At all events, the moment was badly 
ysen to send D’Artagnan away, whether he came from the king, or on 
“own account. The musketeer had rendered too great a service, and 
1t too recently, for it to be already forgotten. Therefore Colbert 
yught it would be better to shake off his arrogance, and call D’Artagnan 
ck. “Ho! Monsieur D’Artagnan,” cried Colbert, “what! are you 
ving me thus ?” 
D’Artagnan turned round: “ Why not?” said he quietly, ‘‘we have 
more to say to each other, have we ?” 
‘You have at least money to take, as you have an order ?” 
“ Who, 1? Oh! not at all, my dear Monsieur Colbert.” 
‘But, monsieur, you have an order! And in the same manner as you 
7e a sword-thrust, when you are required, I, on my part, pay when an 
der is presented tome. Present yours.” 


286 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“Tt is useless, my dear Monsieur Colbert,” said D’Artagnan, w 
wardly enjoyed the confusion introduced into the ideas of Colbert F 
order is paid.” 

“ Paid, by whom ?” 

“ By monsieur le surintendant.”—Colbert became pale. | 

“Explain yourself, then,” said he in a stifled voice-—“ if you are p 
why do you show me that paper ?” 3 

“In consequence of the word of order of which you spoke to me 
ingeniously just now, dear M. Colbert ; the king told me to take a qua: 
of the pension he is pleased to make me.” 

“Of me?” said Colbert. 

“ Not exactly. The king said to me: ‘Go to M. Fouquet ; the su 
tendant will, perhaps, have no money, then you will go and draw it of 
Colbert.’ ” 

The countenance of M. Colbert brightened for a moment; but it + 
with his unfortunate physiognomy as witha stormy sky, sometimes radia 
sometimes dark as night, according as the lightning gleams or the cl 
passes. “Eh! and was there any money in the surintendant’s coffer 
asked he. 

“Why, yes, he could not be badly off for money,” replied D’Artagna 
“it may be believed, since M. Fouquet, instead of paying me a quarte 
five thousand livres e 

‘CA quarter, of five thousand livres !” cried Colbert, struck, as Foug 
had been, with the largeness of the sum destined to pay a soldier; “w! 
that would be a pension of twenty thousand livres !” | 

“Exactly, M. Colbert. Peste / you reckon like old. Pythagoras ; y 
twenty thousand livres.” | 

“Ten times the appointment of an intendant of the finances. I beg 
offer you my compliments,” said Colbert, with a venomous smile. 

“Oh !” said D’Artagnan, “the king apologised for giving me so oe 
but he promised to make it more hereafter, when he should be rich ; | 
I must be gone, having much to do i | 

"50, then, notwithstanding the expectation of the king, the surintend: 
paid you, did he >” \ 

“In the same manner as, in Opposition to the king’s expectation, y 
refused to pay me.” 

“I did not refuse, monsieur ; I only begged you to wait. And you s 
that M. Fouquet paid you your five thousand livres »” 


“Yes, as you might have done 3 but he did still better than that, 1 
Colbert.” 


“And what did he do” 


“ He politely counted me down the totality of the sum, saying that, fc 
the king, his coffers were always full.” 

“The totality of the sum ! - Fouquet has given you twenty thousan 
livres instead of five thousand »” 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“And what for >” 


“Inorder to spare me three visits to the money-chest of the surintendant 

o that I have the twenty thousand livres in my pocket in good new coir 
You see, then, that I am‘able to g0 away without standing in need of you 
having come here only for form's sake.” And D’Artagnan slapped hi 
hand upon his pocket, with a laugh which disclosed to Colbert thirty-tw 
magnificent teeth, as white as teeth of twenty-five years old, and whicl 
seemed to say in their language, “Serve up to us thirty-twa little Colberts 


THE INTENDANT AND THE SURINTENDANT. 289 


ad we will grind them willingly.” The serpent is as brave as the lion, the 
awk as courageous as the eagle—that cannot be contested. It can only 
e said of animals that are decidedly cowardly, and are so called, that they 
ill not be brave when they have to defend themselves. Colbert was not 
ightened at the thirty-two teeth of D’Artagnan ; he recovered, and sud- 
enly, “‘ Monsieur,” said he, “ monsieur le surintendant has done what he 
ad no right to do,” 

“What do you mean by that ?” replied D’Artagnan. 

_“T mean that your note—will you let me see your note, if you please ?” 
| “Very willingly ; here it is.” 

Colbert seized the paper with an eagerness which the musketeer did not 
emark without uneasiness, and particularly without a certain degree of 
egret at having trusted him with it. ‘Well, monsieur, the royal order 
ays this : ‘At sight, I command that there be paid to M. d’Artagnan the 
um of five thousand livres, forming a quarter of the pension I have made 
im.’ ) 

“So, in fact, it is written,” said D’Artagnan, affecting calmness. 
“Very well; the king only owed you five thousand livres. Why has 
nore been given to you ?” 

“ Because there was more, and M. Fouquet was willing to give me more. 
hat does not concern anybody.” 

“Tt is natural,” said Colbert, with a proud ease, “that you should be 
gnorant of the usages of comptadbilité, but, monsieur, when you have a 
housand livres to pay, what do you do?” 

“T never have a thousand livres to pay,” replied D’Artagnan. 

“Once more,” said Colbert, irritated—-“‘ once more, if you had any sum 
0 pay, would you not pay what you ought ?” 

“That only proves one thing,” said D’Artagnan, “and that is, that you 
lave your particular customs in comptabzlité, and M. Fouquet has his 
wn.” 

_ “Mine, monsieur, are the correct ones.” 

“IT do not say they are not.” 

“ And you have received what was not due to you.” 

The eye of D’Artagnan flashed. “ What is not due to me yet, you meant 
o say, M. Colbert ; for if I had received what was not due to me at all, I 
hould have committed a theft.” 

Colbert made no reply to this subtlety. “ You then owe fifteen thousand 
ivres to the public chest,” said he, carried away by his jealous ardour. 

“Then you must give me credit for them,” replied D’Artagnan, with his 
mperceptible irony. 

“Not at all, monsieur,” 

“Well, what will you do, then? You will not take my vouleaux from 
1e, will you ?” 

“You must return them to my chest.” 

“T! Oh, Monsieur Colbert, don’t reckon upon that !” 

“ The king wants his money, monsieur.” 

* And I, monsieur, I want the king’s money.” 

“That may be ; but you must return this.” , 

“Not a sow. I have always understood that in matters of comptabzlité, 
$ you call it, a good cashier never gives back or takes back.” 

“Then, monsieur, we shall see what the king will say about it. I will 
how him this note, which proves that M. Fouquet not only pays what he 
oes not owe, but that he does not even take care of the receipts for what 
¢ has paid.” } ; 


288 LHE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“Ah! now I understand why you have taken that paper, M. Colbert | 

Colbert did not perceive all that there was of a threatening character i 
his name pronounced in a certain manner. “ You shall see hereafter wha 
use I will make of it,” said he, holding up the paper in his fingers. 

“Oh! said D?’Artagnan, snatching the paper from him with a rapj 
movement ; “I understand it perfectly well, M. Colbert ; I have no occ 
sion to wait for that.” And he crumpled up in his pocket the paper heh 
so cleverly seized. 

*‘ Monsieur, monsieur !” cried Colbert, “that is violence !” 

“ Nonsense ! you must not be particular about the manners of a soldier 
replied D’Artagnan. “I kiss your hands, my dear M. Colbert.” And h. 
went out, laughing in the face of the future minister. 

“That man, now,” muttered he, “ was about to adore me ; It is a grea 
_ pity I was obliged to cut company so soon.” ; 


Xe 


CHAPTER LRY,; 
PHILOSOPHY OF THE HEART AND MIND. 


FOR a man who had seen so many much more dangerous ones, the positi 
of D’Artagnan with respect to M. Colbert was only comic. D’Artagna 
therefore, did not deny himself the satisfaction of laughing at the expen 
of monsieur l’intendant, from the Rue des Petits-Champs to the Rue d 
Lombards. It was a great while since D’Artagnan had laughed so lo 
together. He was still laughing when Planchet appeared, laughing lik 
wise, at the door of his house ; for Planchet, since the return of his patro 
since the entrance of the English guineas, passed the greater part of hi 
life in doing what D’Artagnan had only done from Rue-Neuve des Petit 
Champs to the Rue des Lombards. 

“You are come, then, my dear master ?” said Planchet. 

* No, my friend,” replied the musketeer ; “I am going, and that quickl 
I will sup with you, go to bed, sleep five hours, and at break of day le 
lato my saddle. Has my horse had an extra feed »” 

“Eh! my dear master,” replied Planchet, “ you know very well th 
your horse is the jewel of the family ; that my lads are caressing it al 
day, and cramming it with sugar, nuts, and biscuits. You ask me if h 
has had an extra feed of oats ; you should ask ifhe has not had enough t 
burst him.” 

“Very well, Planchet, that is all right. Now, then, I pass to what con 
cerns me—my supper ?” 

“Ready. A smoking roast joint, white wine, crayfish, and fresh- 
gathered cherries. All ready, my master.” 

“You are a capital fellow, Planchet ; come on, then, let us sup, and I 
will go to bed.” 

During supper D’Artagnan observed that Planchet kept rubbing his 
forehead, as if to facilitate the issue of some idea closely pent within his 
brain He looked with an air of kindness at this worthy companion of his 
former crosses, and clinking glass against glass, “Come, Planchet,” said 
he, “let us see what it is that gives you so much trouble to bring it forth, 
Mordioux ! speak freely, and quickly.” 

“Well, this is it,” replied Planchet : “ you appear to me to be going on 
some expedition or other.” 

“T don’t say that I am not.” 

“Then you have some new idea »” 


PHILOSOPHY OF THE HEART AND MIND. 289 


* That is possible, too, Planchet.” 
* Then there will be a fresh capital to be ventured. I will lay down 
y thousand livres upon the idea you are about to carry out.” And so 
ying, Planchet rubbed his hands one against the other with a rapidity 
incing great delight. 
“ Planchet,” said D’Artagnan, “there is but one misfortune in it.” 
* And what is that ?” 

“ That the idea is not mine. I can risk nothing upon it.” These words 
ew a deep sigh from the heart of Planchet. That Avarice is an ardent 
unsellor ; she carries away her man, as Satan did Jesus, to the moun- 
in, and when once she has sho 1 to an unfortunate all the kingdoms of 
e earth, she is able to rep »se herself, knowing full well that she has left 
. companion Envy to gnaw his heart. Planchet had tasted of riches 
sily acquired, and was never afterwards likely to stop in his desires ; but 
‘he had a good heart in spite of his covetousness, as he adored D’Ar- 
gnan, he could not refrain from making him a thousand recommenda- 
ns, each more affectionate than the others. He would .ot have been 
ry, nevertheless, to have caught a little hit of the secret his master 
cealed so well: tricks, turns, counsels, and traps were all useless, 
rtagnan let nothing confidential escape him. The evening passed 
s. After supper the portmanteau occupied D’Artagnan ; he took a turn 
the stable, patted his horse, and examined his shoes and legs ; then, 
ving counted over his money, he went to bed, sleeping as if only twenty, 
cause he had neither inquietude nor remorse ; he closed his eyes five 
nutes after he had blown out his lamp. Many events might, however, 
ve kept him awake. Thought boiled in his brain, conjectures abounded, 
d D’Artagnan was a great drawer of horoscopes ; but, with that imper- 
bable phlegm which does more than genius for the fortune and happi- 
ss of men of action, he put off reflection till the next day, for fear, he 
d, not to be fresh when he wanted to be so. 

he day came. The Rue des Lombards had its share of the caresses of 
rora with the rosy fingers, and D’Artagnan :rose like Aurora. He did 

awaken anybody; he placed his portmanteau under his arm, de- 
nded the stairs without making one of them creak, and without dis- 
bing one of the sonorous snorings stored from the garret to the cellar; 
en, having saddled his horse, shut the stable and house doors, he set off, 
a foot-pace, on his expedition to Bretagne. He had done quite right 
t to trouble himself with all the political and diplomatic affairs which 
licited his attention ; for, in the morning, in the freshness and mild twi- 
ght, his ideas developed themselves in purity and abundance. In the 
rst place, he passed before the house of Fouquet, and threw into a large 
ping box the fortunate order which, the evening before, he had had so 
uch trouble to recover from the hooked fingers of the intendant. Placed 
n an envelope, and addressed to Fouquet, it had not even been divined by 
>lanchet, who in divination was equal to Calchas or the Pythian Apollo. 
)’Artagnan thus sent back the order to Fouquet, without compromising 
\imself, and without having thenceforward any reproaches to make him- 
elf When he had effected this proper restitution, “Now,” said he to 
\imself, “let us inhale much material air, much freedom from cares, much 
ealth ; let us allow the horse Zephyr, whose flanks puff as if he had to 
espire an atmosphere, breathe ; and let us be very ingenious in our little 
alculations. It is time,” said D’Artagnan, “to form a plan of the cam- 
aign, and, according to the method of M. Turenne, who has a large head 

ll of all sorts of good counsels, before the plan of the campaign, it is 

19 


.tagnan was no sooner possessed of riches, than he felt it necessary to ask 


290 ‘THE VICOMTE DE BRACELONNE. 


advisable to draw a striking portrait of the generals to whom we are to b 
opposed. In the first place, M. Fouquet presents himself. What i 
M. Fouquet ?—M. Fouquet,” replied D’Artagnan to’ himself, “is a hanc 
some man, very much beloved by the women ; a generous man, very mug 
beloved by the poets ; a man of wit, much execrated by pretenders. W 
now Lam neither woman, poet, nor pretender; I neither love nor hz 
monsieur le surintendant. I find myself, therefore, in the same positi 
in which M. de Turenne found himself when opposed to the Prince ’ 
Condé at Jargeau, Gien, and the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. He did n 
execrate monsieur le prince, it is true, but he obeyed the king. Monsie 
le prince is an agreeable man, but the king is king. Turenne heaved 
deep sigh, called Condé ‘ My cousin,’ and swept away his army. Novy 
what does the king wish ?—That does not concern me. Now, wh 
does M. Colbert wish ’—QOh, that’s another thing. M. Colbert wish 


This monologue ended, D’Artagnan began to laugh, whilst making 
whip whistle in the air. He was already on the high road, frightening ft 
birds in the hedges, listening to the livres clinking and dancing in~ 
leather pocket, at every step ; and, let us confess it, every time that D’ 
tagnan found himself in such conditions, tenderness was not his domin 
vice. “Come,” said he, “I cannot think the expedition a very danger 
one ; and it will fall out with my voyage as with that piece M. Monk to 


me to see in London, which was called, I think, Auch Ado abo! 
Nothing.” 


CHAPTER LXVL 
THE JOURNEY, 


IT was perhaps the fiftieth time since the day on which we opened th 
history, that this man, with a heart of bronze and muscles of steel, had 1) 
house and friends, everything, in short, to go in search of fortune a 
death. The one—that is to say, death—had constantly retreated befot 
him, as if afraid of him ; the other—that is to say, fortune—for a mont 
past only had really made an alliance with him. Although he was not: 
great philosopher, after the fashion of either Epicurus or Socrates, he wd 
a powerful spirit, having knowledge of life, and endowed with though. 
No one is as brave, as adventurous, or as skilful as D’Artagnan, withou 
being at the same time inclined to be a dveamer. He had picked up, here 
and there, some scraps of M. de la Rochefoucault, worthy of being trans- 
lated into Latin by MM. de Port Royal; and he had made a collection| 
en passant, in the society of Athos and Aramis, of many morsels of Seneca 
and Cicero, translated by them, and applied to the uses of common life. 
That contempt of riches which our Gascon had observed as an article of 
faith during the thirty-five first years of his life, had for a long time been 
considered by him as the first article of the code of bravery. “ Article 
first,” said he, “A man is brave because he has nothing. A man has no- 
thing because he despises riches.” Therefore, with these principles, which 
as we have said, had regulated the thirty-five first years of his life, D’Ar: 


himself if, in spite of his riches, he were still brave. To this, for any othe’ 
but D’Artagnan, the events of the Place de Gréve might have served as 


THE JOURNEY. 291 


veply. Many consciences would have been satisfied with them, but D’Ar- 
agnan was brave enough to ask himself sincerely and conscientiously if 
ae were brave. Therefore to this :— 

“But it appears to me that I drew promptly enough, and cut and thrust 
oretty freely on the Place de Gréve, to be satisfied of my bravery,” D’Ar- 
tagnan had himself replied. ‘Gently, captain, that is not an answer. I 
iwas brave that day, because they were burning my house ; and there are 
a hundred, and even a thousand, to speak against one, that if those gentle- 
men of the riots had not formed that unlucky idea, their plan of attack 
would have succeeded, or, at least, it would not have been I who would 
have opposed myself to it. Now, what will be brought against me? I 
have no house to be burnt in Bretagne ; I have no treasure there that can 
be taken from me.—No; but I have my skin ; that precious skin of M. 
d@’Artagnan, which to him is worth more than all the houses and all the 
treasures of the world. That skin to which I cling above everything, be- 
cause it is, everything considered, the binding of a body which incloses a 
heart very warm and ready to fight, and, consequently, to live. Then, I 
do desire to live ; and, in reality, I live much better, more completely, 
since I have become rich. Who the devil ever said that money spoiled 
ife! Upon my soul, it is no such thing ; on the contrary, it seems as if 
I absorbed a double quantity of air and sun. A/ordioux / what will it be 
then, if I double that fortune, and if, instead of the switch I now hold in 
my hand, I should ever carry the baton of a maréchal? ‘Then, I really 
don’t know if there will be, from that moment, enough of air and sun for 
me. In fact, this is not a dream ; who the devil would oppose it, if the 
king made me a duke and maréchal, as his father, King Louis XIII., made 
a duke and constable of Albert de Luynes? Am I not as brave, and much 
more intelligent, than that imbecile De Vitry? Ah! that’s exactly what 
will prevent my advancement : I have too much wit. Luckily, if there is 
any justice in this world, fortune owes me many compensations. She 
owes me, certainly, a recompense for all I did for Anne of Austria, and an 
indemnification for all she has not done forme. Then at the present, | am 
very well with a king, and with a king who has the appearance of deter- 
mining to reign. May God keep him in that illustrious road! For, if he 
is resolved to reign,he will want me ; and if he wants me, he will giveme 
what he has promised me—warmth and light ; so that I march, compara« 
tively, now, as I marched formerly—from nothing to everything. Only 
the nothing of to-day is the all of former days ; there has only this little 
change taken place in my life. And now let us see! Jet us take the part 
of the heart, as I just now was speaking of it. But, in truth, I only spoke 
of it from memory.” And the Gascon applied his hand to his breast, as 
if he were actually seeking the place where his heart was. 

“Ah! wretch!” murmured he, smiling with bitterness. “Ah! poor 
mortal species! You hoped, for an instant, that you had not a heart, and 
now you find you have one—bad courtier as thou art—and even one o 
the most seditious. You have a heart which speaks to you in favour of 
M. Fouquet. And what is M. Fouquet when the king is in question —A 
conspirator, a real conspirator, who did not even give himself the trouble 
to conceal his being a conspirator ; therefore, what a weapon would you 
not have against him, if his good grace and his intelligence had not made 
a scabbard for that weapon. An armed revolt !—for, in fact, M. Fouquet 
has been guilty of an armed revolt. Thus, while the king vaguely sus- 
pects M. Fouquet of rebellion, I know it—I could prove that M. Fouquet 
had caused the shedding of the blood of his majesty’s subjects. Now, 


1Q—2 


262 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


then, let us see! Knowing all that, and holding my tongue, what further 
would this heart wish in return for a kind action of M. Fouquet’s, for an 
advance of fifteen thousand livres, for a diamond worth a thousand pis- 
toles, for a smile in which there was as much bitterness as kindness ?—I 
save his life. ) 

“Now, then, I hope,” continued the musketeer, “that this imbecile o 
a heart is going to preserve silence, and so be fairly quits with M. Fouquet 
Now, then, the king becomes my sun, and as my heart is quits with M. 
Fr ouquet, let him beware who places ‘himself between me and my sun! 
Forward, for his majesty Louis XIV. !—Forward !” 

These reflections were the only impediments which were able to retard 
the progress of D’Artagnan. These reflections once made, he increased 
the speed of his horse. But, however perfect his horse Zephyr might be, 
it could not hold out at such a pace for ever. The day after his depar- 
ture from Paris, he was left at Chartres, at the house of an old friend 
D’Artagnan had met with in an Aéd~felier of that city. From that mo- 
ment the musketeer travelled on post-horses. Thanks to this mode o 
locomotion, he traversed the space which separates Chartres from Cha 
teaubriand. In the last of these two cities, far enough from the coast t 
prevent any one guessing that D’Artagnan wished to reach the sea—fa 
enough from Paris to prevent all suspicion of his being a messenger fro 
Louis XIV., whom D’Artagnan had called his sun, without suspectin 
that he who was only at present a rather poor star in the heaven o 
royalty, would one day make that star his emblem; the messenger o 
Louis XIV., we say, quitted the post and purchased a dzdet of the 
meanest appearance—one of those animals which an officer of cavalry 
would never choose, for fear of being disgraced. Excepting the colour, 
this new acquisition recalled to the mind of D’Artagnan the famous orange 
coloured horse with which, or rather upon which, he had made his firs 
appearance in the world. ‘Truth to say, from the moment he crossed thi 
new steed, it was no longer D’Artagnan who was travelling,—it was a goo 
man clothed in an iron-grey justaucorps, brown haut-de-chausses, holdin 
the medium between a priest and a layman; that which brought hi 
nearest to the churchman was, that D’Artagnan had placed on his head 
calotte of threadbare velvet, and over the ca/otte, a large black hat ; no: 
more sword; a stick, hung by a cord to his wrist ; but to which, he pro- 
‘mised himself, as an unexpected auxiliary, to join, upon occasion, a good 
dagger, ten inches long, concealed under his cloak. The dzde¢ purchased 
at Chateaubriand completed the metamorphosis ; it was called, or rather, 
D’Artagnan called it, Furet (ferret). 

“Tf I have changed Zephyr into Furet,” said D’Artagnan, “I must 
make some diminutive or other of my own name. So, instead of D’Artag- 
nan, I will be Agnan, short ; that is a concession which I naturally owe to 
my grey coat, my round hat, and my rusty caloéte.” 

Monsieur 'D’Artagnan travelled, then, pretty easily upon Furet, who 
ambled like a true butter-woman’s pad, and who, with his amble, managed 
cheerfully about twelve leagues a day, upon four spindle- shanks, of which 
the practised eye of D’Artagnan had appreciated the strength and safety 
beneath the thick mass of hair which covered them. Jogging along, the 
traveller took notes, studied the country, which he traversed reserved and 
silent, ever seeking the pretext the most plausible to go to Belle-Isle-en- 
Mer, and to see everything without arousing suspicion. In this manner, he 
was enabled to convince himself of the importance the event assumed in 
proportion as he drew near to it. In this remote country, in this ancient 


THE JOURNEY. 293 


«chy of Bretagne, which was not France at that period, and is not even 
| now, the people knew ncthing of the king of France. They not only 
dnot know him, but were unwilling to know him. One fact—a single 
e—floated visibly for them upon the political current. Their ancient 
tkes no longer governed them ; but it wasa void—nothing more. In the 
ace of the sovereign duke, the seigneurs of parishes reigned without 
mtrol ; and, above these seigneurs, God, who has never been forgotten 
Bretagne. Among these suzerains of chateaux and belfries, the most 
»werful, the most rich, and the most popular, was M. Fouquet, seigneur 
’Belle-Isle. Even in the country, even within sight of that mysterious 
ile, legends and traditions consecrate its wonders. Every one did not 
enetrate into it: the isle, of an extent of six leagues in length, and six in 
readth, was a seignorial property, which the people had fora long time 
sspected, covered as it was with the name of Retz, so much redoubted in 
1e country. Shorty after the erection of this seigneurie into a marquisate, 
ielle-Isle passed to M. Fouquet. The celebrity of the isle did not date 
‘om yesterday ; its name, or rather its qualification, is traced back to the 
emotest antiquity : the ancients called it Kalonése, from the two Greek 
ords, signifying beautiful isle. Thus, at a distance of eighteen hundred 
Fars, it had borne, in another idiom, the same name it still bears. There 
as, then, something in itself in this property of M. Fouquet’s, besides its 
sition of six leagues off the coast of France ; a position which makes it 
sovereign in its maritime solitude, like a majestic ship which should dis- 
ain roads, and would proudly cast its anchors in mid-ocean. 
_D’Artagnan learnt all this without appearing the least in the world as- 
onished. He also learnt that the best way to get intelligence was to go to 
a Roche-Bernard, a tolerably important city at the mouth of the Vilaine. 
erhaps there he could embark ; if not, crossing the salt marshes, he 
ould repair to Guérande-en-Croisic, to wait for an opportunity to cross 
er to Belle-Isle. He had discovered, besides, since his departure from 
hateaubriand, that nothing would be impossible for Furet under the im- 
lsion of M. Agnan, and nothing to M. Agnan upon the initiative of 
furet. He prepared, then to sup off a teal and a fourfeau, in an hotel of 
a Roche-Bernard, and ordered to be brought from the cellar, to wash 
own these two Breton dishes, some cider, which, the moment it touched 
1is lips, he perceived to be more Breton still. 


ee 


CHAPTER LXVII. 


IOW D’ARTAGNAN BECAME ACQUAINTED WITH A POET WHO HAD TURNED 
PRINTER FOR THE SAKE OF PRINTING HIS OWN VERSES. 


BEFORE taking his place at table, D’Artagnan acquired, as was his custom, 
ll the information he could; but it is an axiom of curiosity, that every 
nan who wishes to question well and fruitfully ought in the first place to 
ay himself open to questions. D’Artagnan sought, then, with his usual 
kill, a useful questioner in the hostelry of La Roche-Bernard. At the mo- 
nent, there were in the house, in the first story, two travellers occupied 
ulso in preparations for supper, or with their supper itself. D’Artagnan 
1ad seen their nags in the stable, and their equipages in the sad/e. One 
ravelled with a lackey, as a sort of personage ;—two Perche mares, sleek, 
sound beasts, were their means of locomotion. ‘The other, rather a little 
fellow, a traveller of meagre appearance, wearing a dusty surtout, dirty 
linen, boots more worn by the pavement than the stirrup, had come from 


294 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


Nantes with a cart drawn by a horse so like Furet in colour, that D’Artag- 
nan might have gone a hundred miles without finding a better match. 
This cart contained divers large packets wrapped up in pieces of old stuff. 

“That traveller there,” said D’Artagnan to himself, “is the man for my 
money. He will do, he suits me; I ought to do for and suit him; M, 
Agnan, with the grey doublet and the rusty ca/offe, is not unworthy of sup 
ping with the gentleman of the old boots and the old horse.” This bein 
said, D’Artagnan called the host, and desired him to send his teal, sourteau, 
and cider up to the chamber of the gentleman of modest exterior. He 
himself climbed, a plate in his hand, the wooden staircase which led to the 
chamber, and began to knock at the door. 

“Come in!” said the unknown, D’Artagnan entered, with a simper on 
his lips, his plate under his arm, his hat in one hand, his candle in the 
other. 

“‘Excuse me, monsieur,” said he, “I am, as you are, a traveller ; I know 
no one in the hotel, and I have the bad habit of losing my spirits when I 
eat alone ; so that my repast appears a bad one to me, and does not 
nourish me. You: face, which I saw just now, when you came down t 

have some oysters opened,—your face pleased me much. Besides, I hav 

observed you have a horse just like mine, and that the host, no doubt o 

account of that resemblance, has placed them side by side in the stable, 
where they appear to agree amazingly well together. I therefore, monsieur, 
cannot see why the masters should be separated when the horses are 
united. In consequence, I am come to request the pleasure of being ad- 
mitted to your table. My name is Agnan, at your service, monsieur, the 
unworthy steward of a rich seigneur, who wishes to purchase some salt- 
mines in this country, and sends me to examine his future acquisitions. 
In truth, monsieur, I should be well pleased if my countenance were as 
agreeable to you as yours is to me ; for, upon my honour, I am quite yours.” 

The stranger, whom D’Artagnan sa’’ for the first time,—for before he ha 
only caught a glimpse of him —the stranger had black and brilliant eyes 
a yellow complexion, a brow a little wrinkled by the weight of fifty 
years, bonhomie in his features collectively, but a little cunning in his look 

“One would say,” thought D’Artagnan, “that this merry fellow hag 
never exercised more than the upper part of his head, his eyes, and his 
brain. He must be aman of science: his mouth, nose, and chin signify 
absolutely nothing.” 

“Monsieur,” replied the latter, with whose mind and person we have 
been making so free, “you do me much honour ; not that I am ever ezmuzyé, 
for I have,” added he, smiling, “a company which amuses me always; 
but, never mind that, I am very happy to receive you.” But when saying 
this, the man with the worn boots cast an uneasy look at his table, from 
which the oysters had disappeared, and upon which there was nothing left 
but a morsel of salt bacon. 

“Monsieur,” D’Artagnan hastened to say, “the host is bringing me up 
a pretty piece of roasted poultry and a superb /ourteau.” D’Artagnan 
had read in the look of his companion, however rapid it had been, the 
fear of an attack by a parasite: he divined justly. At this opening, the 
features of the man of modest exterior relaxed ; and, as if he had watched 
the moment for his entrance, as D’Artagnan spoke, the host appeared, 
bearing the announced dishes. The ¢ourteau and the teal were added to 
the morsel of broiled bacon: D’Artagnan and his guest bowed, sat down 
opposite to each other, and, like two brothers, shared the bacon and the 
other dishes. | : 


DARTAGNAN AND THE POET. 295 


“ Monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, “you must confess that association is a 
onderful thing.” 

““ How so 2” replied the stranger, with his mouth full. 

Well, I will tell you,” replied D’Artagnan. 

The stranger gave a short truce to the movement of his jaws, in order 
» hear the better. 

“In the first place,” continued D’Artagnan, “instead of one candle, 
thich each of us had, we have two.” 

“That is true !’ said the stranger, struck with the extreme justness of 
he observation. 

“Then I see that you eat my /ourteau in preference, whilst I, in pre- 
erence, eat your bacon.” 

“That is true again.” 

“ And then, in addition to being better lighted and eating what we pre- 
er, I place the pleasure of your company.” 

“ Truly, monsieur, you are very jovial,” said the unknown cheerfully. 

“Yes, monsieur, jovial, as ali people are who carry nothing in their 

eads. Oh! I can see it is quite another sort of thing with you,” con- 
inued D’Artagnan ; “I can read in your eyes all sorts of genius.” 

“Oh, monsieur !” 

“Come, confess one thing.” —“ What is that ae 

“That you are a learned man.”——“ Ma fot / monsieur.” 

Hein 2? ——“ Almost.” 

“Come, then !’——“ I am an author.” 

“ There !” cried D’Artagnan, clapping his hands, “I knew I could not 
be deceived! It is a miracle !” 

“ Monsieur——” 

“ What! shall I have the honour of passing the evening in the society 
f an author, of a celebrated author, perhaps ?” 

“Oh !” said the unknown, blushing, “ celebrated, monsieur, celebrated 
s not the word.” 

“Modest !” cried D’Artagnan, transported, “he is modest !” Then, 
turning towards the stranger, with a character of blunt domhomie: “ But 
tell me at least the name of your works, monsieur ; for you will please to 
observe you have not told me yours, and I have been forced to divine 
your genius.” 

“ My name is Jupenet, monsieur,” said the author. 

“ A fine name! a fine name ! upon my honour ; and I do not know why 
—pardon me the mistake, if it be one—put surely I have heard that name 
somewhere.” 

“T have made verses,” said the poet modestly. 

“Ah! that is it then ; I have heard them read.” 

-“ A tragedy.” 

““T must have seen it played.” 

_ The poet blushed again, and said : “T donot think that can be the case, 
for my verses have not been printed.” 

es Well, then, it must have been the tragedy which informed me of your 
name. 

“You are again mistaken, for MM. the comedians of the Hétel de- 
Bourgogne would have nothing to do with it,” said the poet, with the smile 
of which certain sorts of pride alone know the secret. D’Artagnan bit 
his lips. “Thus then you see, monsieur,” continued the poet, “you are in 
error on my account, and that not being at all known to you, you have 
never heard speak of me.” 


} 


296 i THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


** And that confounds me. That name, Jupenet, appears to me neverthe 


Wi 


less, a fine name, and quite as worthy of being known as those of MM\" 
Corneille, or Rotrou, or Garnier. I hope, monsieur, you will have th\' 
goodness to repeat to me a part of your tragedy presently, by way o|' 
dessert, for instance. That will be sugared roast meat,—mordioux! Ahjj 


pardon me, monsieur, that was a little oath which escaped me, because 


is a habit with my lord and master. I sometimes allow myself to usur 


that little oath, as it seems in good taste. I take this liberty only in h 


absence, please to observe, for you may understand that in his frst lira 


but,—in truth——” 


“ Monsieur, this cider is abominable! do you not think so? And 
besides, the pot is of such an irregular shape it will not stand on i 


table.” 
‘Suppose we were to make it level ?” 
“To be sure ; but with what?” 
“With this knife.” 


“ And the teal, with what shall we cut that up? Do you not, by chance 


mean to touch the teal r’—_—_—“ Certainly.” 


* Well then “Wait.” And the poet rummaged in his pocket an 


drew out a piece of brass, oblong, quadrangular, about a line in thickness 


and an inch and a half in length. But scarcely had this little piece oO, 
brass seen the light, than the poet appeared to have committed an imprui 
dence, and made a movement to put it back again in his pocket. D’Ar? 

tagnan perceived this, for he was a man nothing escaped. He stretched 


1! 


forth his hand towards the piece of brass: “Humph ! that which 7 


hold in your hand is pretty ; will you allow me to look at it ?” 
“Certainly,” said the poet, who appeared to have yielded too soon to 


a. 
le 


first impulse. “Certainly, you may look at it; but it will be in vain for 
you to look at it,” added he, with a satisfied air. ; “if I were not to tell you: 


the use of that, you would never guess it.” 


D’Artagnan ‘had seized as an avowal the hesitation of the poet, and his 


eagerness to conceal the piece of brass which a first movement had in-~ 


P 


duced him to take out of his pocket. His attention, therefore, once 
awakened on this point, he surrounded himself with a circumspection 
which gave him a superiority upon all occasions. Besides, whatever M. 
Jupenet might say about it, by the simple inspection of the object, he pak 


perfectly known what it was. It was a character in printing. 
“Can you guess, now, what this is?” continued the poet. 
“No,” said D’Artagnan, “no, ma _fo7 !” 


a Well, monsieur,” said M. Jupenet, “this little piece of brass is a print- 


ing letter.” —* Bah !” 

A capital.” 
“Stop, stop, stop,” said D’Artagnan, opening his eyes very innocently. 
“Yes, monsieur, a capital ; the first letter of My name.” 

“ And this is a letter, i is it” ‘“‘'Yes, monsieur.” 

“Well ; I will confess one thing to you.” 

“ And what is that ?” 

“IN Opal will not ; I was going to say something very stupid.” 

“ No, no,” said Master Jupenet, with a patronising air. 


a Well, then, I cannot comprehend, if that is a letter, how you can make 


a word.” 
“A word ?” “Yes, a printed word.” 
“Oh, that’s very easy.” ——“ Let me see.” 
“Does it interest you :”-——“ Enormously,” 


DARTAGNAN AND THE POET. 297 


“Well, I will explain the thing to you. Attend.” 

‘“T am attending.” 
'“ That is it.”——“ Good.” 
“Look attentively.” 

“Tam looking.” D’Artagnan, in fact, appeared absorbed in his observa- 
ons. Jupenet drew from his pocket seven or eight other pieces of brass, 
at smaller than the first. 

‘Ah, ah !” said D’Artagnan. 

“ What ??-—“ You have, then, a whole printing office in your pocket. 
este 1 that is curious indeed.” 

“Ts it not?” 

“ Good God ! what a number of things we learn by travelling !” 

“To your health !” said Jupenet, quite enchanted. 

“To yours, mordioux ! to yours. But—an instant—not in this cider. It 
san abominable drink, unworthy of a man who quenches his thirst at the 

ippocrene fountain—is not it so you call your fountain, you poets ?” 

“ Yes, monsieur, our fountain is so called. That comes from two Greek 
ords—/ippos, which means a horse, and——” 

‘ Monsieur,” interrupted D’Artagnan, “you shall drink of a liquor which 

mes from one single French word, and is none the worse for that,—from 

e word grape, this cider gives me the heartburn. Allow me to inquire of 

r host if there is not a good bottle of Beaugency, or of the Ceran growth, 

the back of the large bins of his cellar.” 

The host, being called, immediately attended. 

“ Monsieur,” interrupted the poet, “take care, we shall not have time to 

ink the wine, unless we make great haste, for I must take advantage of 

e tide to secure the boat.” 

“ What boat?” asked D’Artagnan. 

“Why, the boat which sets out for Belle-Isle.” 

“ Ah,—for Belle-Isle,” said the musketeer, “that is good.” 

“Bah! you will have plenty of time, monsieur,” replied the 2é¢e/éer, un- 

rking the bottle, “the boat will not leave this hour.” 

“ But who will give me notice?” said the poet. 

“ Your neighbour,” replied the host. 

“ But I scarcely know him.” 

“When you hear him going, it will be time for you to go.” 

“Is he going to Belle-Isle, likewise, then ?’——“ Yes.” 

“The monsieur who has a lackey?” asked D’Artagnan. “ He is some 
entleman, no doubt ?” 

“T know nothing of him.” 

“ How !—know nothing of him ?” 

“No ; all I know is, that he is drinking the same wine as you.” 

“ Peste / that is a great honour for us,” said D’Artagnan, filling his com- 

panion’s glass, whilst the host went out. 

“So,” resumed the poet, returning to his dominant ideas, “you never 
saw any printing done ?’——-* Never.” 

“Well, then, take the letters thus, which compose the word, you sec ; 
AB; ma /foi/ here is an R, two E E,thenaG.” And he assembled the 
letters with a swiftness and skill which did not escape the eye of D’Ar- 
tagnan. 

“ Abrégé,” said he, as he ended. 
~ Good!” said D’Artagnan ; “here are plenty of letters got together ; 
but how are they kept so?” And he poured out a second glass for the 

oet, M. Jupenet smiled like a man who has an answer for everything ; 


298 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


then he pulled out—still from his pocket—a little metal ruler, compose 
of two parts, like a carpenter’s rule, against which he put together, and i: 
a line, the characters, holding them under his left thumb. 

“ And what do you call that little metal ruler?” said D’Artagnan, “ for, 
suppose, all these things have names.” Ae 

“This is called a composing-stick,” said Jupenet ; “it is by the aid ¢ 
this stick that the lines are formed.” 

“Come, then, I was not mistaken in what I said ; you have a press i 
your pocket,” said D’Artagnan, laughing with an air of simplicity so stupi 
that the poet was completely his dupe. 

“No,” replied he ; “but I am too lazy to write, and when I have a versi 
in my head, I print it immediately. That is a labour spared.” 4 

“ Mordioux !” thought D’Artagnan to himself, “this must be clearec 
up.” And under a pretext, which did not embarrass the musketeer, wh¢ 
‘was fertile in expedients, he left the table, went down stairs, ran to the 
shed under which stood the poet’s little cart, poked the point of his poniar 
into the stuff which enveloped one of the packages, which he found full 
types, like those which the poet had in his pocket. 

“Humph !” said D’Artagnan, “I do not yet know whether M. Fouqu 
wishes to fortify Belle-Isle ; but, at all events, here are some spiritu 
munitions for the castle.” Then, rich in his discovery, he ran up stai 
again, and resumed his place at the table. 

D’Artagnan had learnt what he wished to know. He, however, r 
mained, none the less, face to face with his partner, to the moment whe 
they heard from the next room symptoms of a person’s being about to goou 
The printer was immediately on foot ; he had given orders for his hors 
to be got ready. His carriage was waiting at the door. The secon 
traveller got into his saddle, in the courtyard, with his lackey. D’Artagna 
followed Jupenet to the door; he embarked his cart and horse on boa 
the boat. As to the opulent traveller, he did the same with his two hors 
and his servant. But all the wit D’Artagnan employed in endeavouring 
find out his name was lost—he could learn nothing. Only he took su 
notice of his countenance, that that countenance was impressed upon hi 
mind for ever. D’Artagnan had a great inclination to embark with th 
two travellers, but an interest more powerful than curiosity—that of su 
cess—repelled him from the shore, and brought him back again to th 
hotellerte. Ue entered with a sigh, and went to bed directly, in order t 
be pany early in the morning with fresh ideas and the counsel of th 
nignt, 


GHAPTER ULXVilk 
D’ARTAGNAN CONTINUES HIS INVESTIGATIONS. 


AT daybreak, D’Artagnan saddled Furet, who had fared sumptuously all 
the night, and devoured the remainder of the corn left by her companions. 
The musketeer sifted all he could out of the host, whom he found cunning, 
-mistrustful, and devoted, body and soul, to M. Fouquet. In order, then, 
not to awaken the suspicions of this man, he carried on his fable of being 
a probable purchaser of some salt-mines. To have embarked for Belle. 
Isle at Roche-Bernard, would have been to expose himself to comments 
which had, perhaps, been already made, and would be carried to the 
castle. Moreover, it was singular that this traveller and his lackey should 
have remained a secret for D’Artagnan, in spite of all the question 


DARTAGNAN CONTINUES HIS INVESTIGATIONS. 299 - 


essed by him to the host, who appeared to know him perfectly well. 

-musketeer then made some inquiries concerning the salt-mines, and 

the road to the marshes, leaving the sea to his right, and penetrating 

‘that vast and desolate plain which resembles a sea of mud, of which, 
sand there, a few crests of salt silver the undulations. Furet walked 
\irably, with his little nervous legs, along the foot-wide causeways 
ch separate the salt-mines. D’Artagnan, aware of the consequences of 
Il, which would result ‘nacold bath, allowed him to go as he liked, 
tenting himself with looking at, in the horizon, the three rocks, which 
> up like lance-blades from the bosom of the plain, destitute of verdure. 
al, the bourgs of Batz and Le Croisic, exactly resembling each other, 
acted and suspended his attention. If the traveller turned round, the 
ter to make his observations, he saw on the other side an horizon of 
se other steeples, Guérande, La Poulighen, and Saint-Joachim, which, 
heir circumference, represented a set of skittles, of which he and Furet 
-e but the wandering ball. Pirial was the first little port on his right. 
went thither, with the names of the principal salters in his mouth. At 
moment he visited the little port of Pirial, five large barges, laden with 

e, were leaving it. It appeared strange to D’Artagnan that stones 
suld be.leaving a country where none are found. He had recourse to all 

amenity of M. Agnan to learn from the people of the port the cause 
this singularity. An old fisherman replied to M. Agnan, that the stones, 
ry certainly, did not come from Pirial or the marshes. 
«Where do they come from, then 2” asked the musketeer. 
“ Monsieur, they come from Nantes and Paimbceuf.” 
“ Where are they going, then 4 


“ Monsieur, to Belle-Isle.” 
“ Ah! ah!” said D’Artagnan, ‘1 the same tone he had assumed to tell 


printer that his characters interested him ; “ are they building at Belle- 


e, then 2” 
“Why, yes, Monsieur, M. Fouquet has the walls of the castle repaired 


ery year.” 

“Ts it inruins, then >” “Tt is old.” 

“ Thank you.”—“ The fact is,” said D’Artagnan to himself, “ nothing is 
‘etor has aright to repair his property. It would 


ore natural; every proprietor 2 
e like telling me I was fortifying the ‘Image de Ndtre-Dame,’ when I 


ould be purely and simply obliged to make repairs. In good truth, I 
elieve false reports have been made to his majesty, and he is very likely 
) be in the wrong.” 

“You must confess,” continued he then aloud, and addressing the 
sherman—for his part of a suspicious man was imposed upon him by the 
ybject even of his mission—“ you must confess, my dear monsieur, that 
hese stones travel in a very curious fashion.” 

“ How so 2” said the fisherman. 

“They come from Nantes or Paimbceuf by the Loire, do they not ? 


“That descends.” bay! 
“That is convenient,—I don’t say It 1s not ; but why do they not go 


straight from Saint-Nazaire to Belle-Isle *” 
“Eh! because the chalands (barges) are bad boats, and keep the sea 
badly,” replied the fisherman. 


«That is not a reason.” 
“ Pardon me, monsieur, one may see that you have never been a sailor,” 


added the fisherman, not without a sort of disdain. 
“Explain that to me, if you please, my good man, It appears to me 


} : 


in Ae 
300 LHE VICOMTE De BRAGELONNE, 


that to come from Paimbceuf to Pirial, and go from Pirial to Belle-Isle, 
as if we went from Roche-Bernard to Nantes, and from Nantes to Piria 

“By water that would be the nearest way,” replied the fisherman, impe 
turbably. 

“But there is an elbow?” The fisherman shook his head. 

“The shortest road from one place to another is the straight line,” co 
tinued D’Artagnan. 

“ You forget the tide, monsieur.” “Well! take the tide.” 

“And the wind.” —“ Well, and the wind,” 

“Without doubt ; the current of the Loire carries barques almost as f 
as Croisic. If they want to lie by a little, or to refresh the crew, the 

_ come to Pirial along the coast ; from Pirial they find another inver: 
current, which carries them to the Isle-Dumel, two leagues and a half,” 

“ Granted.” 

“There the current of the Vilaine throws them upon another isle, th 
isle of Hoedic ?” “T agree to that.” 

‘“ Well, monsieur, from that isle to Belle-Isle the way is quite straigh 
The sea, broken both above and below, passes like a canal—like a mirr 
between the two isles ; the chalands glide along upon it like ducks up 
the Loire ; that is it.” 

“It does not signify,” said the obstinate M. Agnan ; “it is very f. 
about.” 

“Ah! yes ; but M. Fouquet will have it so,” replied, as conclusive, t 
fisherman, taking off his woollen cap at the enunciation of that respecte 
name. 

A look from D’Artagnan, a look as keen and piercing as a sword-blad 
found nothing in the heart of the old man but simple confidence, on hi 
features nothing but satisfaction and indifference. He said. “M. Fouqu 
will have it so,” as he would have said, “ God has willed it.” 

D’Artagnan had already advanced too far in this direction ; besides, th 
chalands being gone, there remained nothing at Pirial but a single barq 
—that of the old man—and it did not look fit for sea without great pr 
paration. D’Artagnan therefore aroused F uret, who, as a new proof 
his charming character, resumed his march with his feet in the salt-mines, 
and his nose to the dry wind, which bends the furze and the broom of this 
country. He reached Croisic about five o’clock. 

If D’Artagnan had been a poet, it was a beautiful spectacle that of th 
immense strand of a league or more, which the sea covers at high tides 
and which at the reflux appears grey, desolate, spread over with poly- 

~~ puses and seaweed, with its pebbles dispersed and white, like the bones in 
some vast old cemetery. But the soldier, the politician, and the ambitious 
man had no longer the sweet consolation of looking towards heaven, to 
read there a hope or a warning. A red sky signifies nothing to such people 
but wind and disturbance. White and fleecy clouds upon the azure only 
say that the sea will be smooth and peaceful. D’Artagnan found the sky 
blue, the breeze embalmed with saline perfumes, and he said, “I will em- 
bark with the first tide, if it be but in a nutshell.” 

At Croisic, as at Pirial, he had remarked enormous heaps of stone lying 
along the shore. These gigantic walls, demolished every tide by the trans- 
port operated upon them for Belle-Isle, were, in the eyes of the musketeer, 
the consequence and the proof of what he had well divined at Pirial. Was 
it a wall that M. Fouquet was constructing ?—was it a fortification he was 
erecting? To ascertain that, he must see it. D’Artagnan put Furet into 
a stable, supped, went to bed, and on the morrow took a walk upon the 


DARTAGNAN CONTINUES HIS INVESTIGATIONS. — 3 


, or rather upon the shingle. Le Croisic has a port of fifty feet ; it 
a look-out which resembles an enormous brioche (a kind of cake) ele- 
donadish. The flat strand is the dish. Hundreds of barrowsful of 
h, solidified with the pebbles, and rounded into cones, with sinuous 
sages between, are look-outs and drdoches at the same time. It is so 


hundred years ago, only the brioche was less large, and 


', it was so two 
pably there were not to be seen trellises of lath around the drzoche, 


ch constitute the ornament of it, and which the edility of that poor and 
as bourgade has planted _like gardes-fous along the passages, winding 
‘ards the little terrace. Upon the shingle were three or four fishermen 
sing about sardines and shrimps. D’Artagnan, with his eye animated 
rough gaiety, and a smile upon his lips, approached these fishermen. 
‘Any fishing going on to-day ?” said he. 
‘Yes, monsieur,” replied one of them ; 
a”? 

‘Where do you fish, my friends 
‘Upon the coasts, monsieur.” 


“Which are the best coasts 7 
“ Ah, that is according. The tour of the isles, for example.” 


© Yes ; but they are a long way off, those isles, are they not sp 

“ Not very ; four leagues.” 

“Four leagues! That is a voyage.” 

The fishermen laughed out in M. Agnan’s face. 

“ Hear me, then,” said the latter, with an air of simple stupidity ; “ four 


agues off you lose sight of land, do you not eS 
“Why? Not always.” 
“ Ah, it is a long way—too long, or else I would have asked you to take 
e aboard, and to show me what I have never seen.” 
\c What is that 2?“ A live sea-fish.” 
“ Monsieur comes from the province ?” said a fishermen. 
“Ves, I come from Paris.” 
IThe Breton shrugged his shoulders ; 
uquet in Paris 2” asked he. 
“ Often,” replied D’Artagnan. 
“ Often !” repeated the fishermen, 
|Do you know him fe 
“ A ‘little ; he is the intimate friend of my master.” 
“ Ah ! said the fishermen, in astonishment. 
! « And,” said D’Artagnan, “ I have seen all his chateaux of Saint-Mandé, 
sf Vaux, and his hotel in Paris.” 
“Ts that a fine place ??——“ Superb.” 
“It is not so fine a place as Belle-Isle, 
“Bah! cried M. D’Artagnan, breaking into a 


angered all his auditors. ; 
“Tt is very plain you have never seen Belle-Isle,” said the most curious 
are six leagues of it, and that 


of the fishermen. “ Do you know that there 
there are such trees on it as cannot be equalled even at Nantes-sur-le- 


“we are only waiting for the 


Py) 


then, “ Have you ever seen M. 


closing their circle round the Parisian. 


» said the fisherman. 
laugh so loud that he 


Fossé ?” 
a Trees in the sea!” cried D’Artagnan. “ Well, I should like to see 
them.” 
“ That can be easily done. We are fishing at the Isle de Hoedic—come 
Paradise, the black trees of 


with us. From that place you will see, as a Farat 
he white line of the castle, which 


Belle-Isle against the sky ; you will see t 
cuts the horizon of the sea like a blade.” 


302 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“ Oh,” said D’Artagnan, “ that must-be very beautiful. But do you kr 
there are a hundred belfries at M. Fouquet’s chateau of Vaux a: 
._ The Breton raised his head in profound admiration, but he was not C. 
vinced. “A hundred belfries | Ah, that may be; but Belle-Isle is fi 
than that. Should you like to see Belle-Isle >” 

“Is that possible >” asked D’Artagnan. 

“Yes, with the permission of the governor.” 

“But I do not know the governor.” 

“As you know M. Fouquet, you can tell your name.” 

“ Oh, my friends, I am not a gentleman.” : 

“‘ Everybody enters Belle-Isle,” continued the fisherman, in his stro1 
pure language, “provided he means no harm to Belle-Isle or its master 

A slight shudder crept over the body of the musketeer, “That is tru 
thought he ; then recovering himself, “ If I were sure,” said he, “not to 
sea-sick,” _ 

“What! upon her?” said the fisherman, pointing with pride to ] 
pretty round-bottomed barque. 

“Well, you almost persuade me,” cried M. Agnan; “TI will go and 
Belle-Isle, but they will not admit me.” 

“We shall enter, safe enough.” 

“You! What for ?” 

“Why, dame ! to sell fish to the corsairs,” 
“He! .Corsairs—what do you mean ?” 
__ “Well, I mean that M. Fouquet is having two corsairs built to ch 
the Dutch and the English, and we sell our fish to the crews of those li 


“Come, come !” said D’Artagnan to himself—<“ better and better, 
printing-press, bastions, and corsairs! Well M. i 
to be despised, as | presumed to fancy. He is worth the trouble of 
velling to see him nearer.” 

“We set out at half-past five,” said the fisherman, gravely. 

“T am quite ready, and I will not leave you now.” So D’Artagnan 
the fishermen haul their barques to meet the tide with | 
Sea rose ; M. Agnan allowed himself to be hoisted on board, not wi 


ght them good luck ; they told him so, The soldie: 
found the Occupation so pleasant, that he put his hand to the work—that 
1S to say, to the lines—and uttered roars of joy, and mordioux enough to 
ave astonished musketeers themselves, every time that a shock given t 
his line by a captured prey required the play of the muscles of his ar 
and the employment of his skill and strength. The party of pleasur 
had made him forget his diplomatic mission, He was struggling wit 


D ARTAGNAN CONTINUES HIS IN VESTIGA TIONS. 303 


awfully large conger, and holding fast with one hand to the side of the 
sel in order to seize with the other the gaping jowl of his antago- 
t. when the patron said to him, “Take care they don’t see you from 
Ale-Isle !” 
These words produced the same effect upon D’Artagnan as the hissing 
the first bullets on a day of battle : he left go of both line and conger, 
ich, one dragging the other, returned again to the water. D’Artagnan 
rceived, within half a league at most, the blue and marked profile of the 
-ks of Belle-Isle, dominated by the white majestic line of the castle. In 
e distance, the land with ‘ts forests and verdant plains ; cattle on the 
ass. This was what first attracted the attention of the musketeer. The 
‘n darted its rays of gold upon the sea, raising a shining mist or dust 
‘ound this enchanted isle. Nothing could be seen of it, owing to this 
wzling light, but the flattened points; every shadow was strongly 
arked, and cut with a band cf darkness the luminous sheet of the 
alds and the walls. “Eh! ch !” said D’Artagnan, at the aspect of those 
lasses of black rocks, “ these are fortifications which do not stand in 
eed of any engineer to render a landing difficult. Which the devil 
ay could a landing be effected on that isle which God has defended so 
mpletely °” 
“This way,” replied the patron of the barque, changing the sail, and 
pressing upon the rudder a twist which turned the boat in the direction 
f a pretty little port, quite coquettish, quite round, and quite newly battle- 
nented. 

“What the devil do I see yonder ?” said D’Artagnan.——*“ You see 
-eomaria,” replied the fisherman, 

‘Well, but there ?” “That is Bragos.” 

“ And further on ?’/——“ Sanger, and then the palace.” 

“ Mordioux! It is a world. Ah! there are some soldiers.” 

«“ There are seventeen hundred men in Belle-Isle, monsieur,” replied the 
sherman proudly. “Do you know that the least garrison is of twenty 
ompanies of infantry 

“ Mordioux !” cried D’Artagnan, stamping with his foot. His majesty 
as right enough.” They landed. 


a ee 


CHAPTER LXIX. 


N WHICH THE READER, NO DOUBT, WILL BE AS ASTONISHED AS D’AR- 
TAGNAN WAS TO MEET WITH AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 


THERE is always something in a landing, if it be only from the smallest 
sea-boat—a trouble and a confusion which do not leave to the mind the 
liberty of which it stands in need in order to study at the first glance the 
new place that is presented to ‘+t. The moveable bridges, the agitated 
sailors, the noise of the water upon the pebbles, the cries and the impor- 
tunities of those who wait on the shore, are the multiplied details of that 
sensation which is summed up in one single result—hesitation. It was 
not, then, till after standing several minutes on the shore that D’Artagnan 
saw upon the port, but more particularly in the interior of the isle, an im- 
mense number of workmen ‘n motion. At his feet, D’Artagnan recognised 
the five chalands laden with rough stone which he had seen leave the port 
of Pirial. The stones were transported to the shore by means of a chain 
formed by twenty-five or thirty peasants. The large stones were loaded 
upon carriages which conveyed them in the same direction as the shards, 


304 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


that is to say, towards the works, of which D’Artagnan could as y 
appreciate neither the strength nor the extent. Everywhere was to lf 
seen an activity equal to that which Telemachus observed on his landir} 
at Salentum. D’Artagnan felt a strong inclination to penetrate into tt 


going beyond the line formed by the fishermen on the beach, observi 
everything, saying nothing, and meeting all suspicions that might ha 
been excited with a half-silly question or a polite bow. And yet, whil: 


the two extremities of the port, in order that the fires should cross upo 
the great axis of the ellipsis formed by the basin, in the first place, tw 
batteries had been raised, evidently destined to receive flank pieces, f 


might turn to embrace every direction over the epaulment. By the si 
of each of these batteries other workmen were strengthening gabio 


often heard the Comte de la Fére speak as a great advancement, but 
which he had never yet seen the application. These fortifications belonge 
neither to the Dutch method of Marollais, nor to the French method 


skilful engineer, who, for about six or eight years, had quitted the servic 
of Portugal to enter that of France. These works had the peculiarity 
that instead of rising above the earth as did the ancient ramparts destined 
to defend a city from escalades, they, on the contrary, sunk into it ; and 
what created the height of the walls was the depth of the ditches. It did 
not take long to make D’Artagnan perceive the superiority of such asystem, 
which gives no advantage to cannon. Besides, as the /ossés were lower 


ductor of the works, were occupied in placing the last stones. A bridge 
of planks, thrown over the fossé for the greater convenience of the man- 


| AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 305 


“his group was superintended by the man whom D’Artagnan had already 
iarked, and who appeared to be the engineer-in-chief. A plan was 
1g open before him upon a large stone forming a table, and at some 
ves from him a crane was in action. This engineer, who by his evident 
sortance first attracted the attention of D’Artagnan, wore a justaucorps, 
ich, from its sumptuousness, was scarcely in harmony with the work 
was employed in, which would rather have necessitated the costume of 
naster mason than of a noble. He was, besides, a man of high stature 
d large square shoulders, wearing a hat covered with feathers. He 
sticulated in the most majestic manner, and appeared—for D’Artagnan 
ly saw his back—to be scolding the workmen for their idleness and want 
strength. 
D’Artagnan continued to draw nearer. At that moment the man with 
e feathers had ceased to gesticulate, and, with his hands placed upon his 
lees, was following, half-bent, the efforts of six workmen to raise a block 
‘hewn stone to the top of a piece of timber destined to support that 
one, so that the cord of the crane might be passed under it. Lie, Six 
en, all on one side of the stone, united their efforts to raise it eight or 
n inches from the ground, sweating and blowing, whilst a seventh got 
ady against there should be daylight enough beneath it to slide in the 
Jier that was to support it. But the stone had already twice escaped 
om their hands before gaining a sufficient height for the roller to be intro- 
iced. ‘There can be no doubt that every time the stone escaped them, 
ey bounded quickly backwards, to keep their feet from being crushed by 
ie refalling stone. Every time, the stone, abandoned by them, sunk 
eeper into the damp earth, which rendered the operation more and more 
ifficult. A third effort was followed by no better success, but with pro- 
ressive discouragement. And yet, when the six men were bent towards 
e stone, the man with the feathers had himself, with a powerful voice, 
‘yen the word of command, FIRM, which presides over all manoeuvres of 
frength. Then he drew himself up. 
“Oh! oh!” said he, “ what is all this about >? Have I to do with men 
straw? Corne de beuf! stand on one side, and you shall see how this is 


» be done.” ' 
‘ Peste P? said D’Artagnan, “ will he pretend to raise that rock? that 


ould be a sight worth looking ats 
The workmen, as commanded by the engineer, drew back, with their 
ars down and shaking their heads, with the exception of the one who 
neld the plank, who prepared to perform his office. The man with the 
feathers went up to the stone, stooped, slipped his hands under the face 
lying upon the ground, stiffened his Herculean muscles, and, without a 
strain, with a slow motion, like that of a machine, he lifted the end of the 
rock a foot from the ground. The workman who held the plank profited 
by the space thus given him, and slipped the roller under the stone. 

“ That’s the way,” said the giant, not letting the rock fall again, but 


placing it upon its support. 
“ Mordioux / cried D’Artagnan, “J know but one man capable of such 


a feat of strength.” 
“ Hein /” cried the colossus, turning round. 
“Porthos !” murmured D’Artagnan, seized with stupor; “ Porthos at 


Belle-Isle !” ‘ 
On his part, the man with the feathers fixed his eyes upon the disguised 


lieutenant, and, in spite of his metamorphosis, recognised him.  D’Ar- 


| 3 


306 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


tagnan !” cried he ; and the colour mounted to his face. “ Hush !” $a. 
to D’Artagnan. e 

“ Hush !” in his turn, said the musketeer. In fact, if Porthos had, 
been discovered by D’Artagnan, D’Artagnan had just been discoverec 
Porthos. ‘The interest of the particular secret of each struck them bot] 
the same time. Nevertheless, the first movement of the two men was 
throw their arms round each other. What they wished to conceal fr 
the bystanders, was not their friendship, but their names. But, after 
embrace, came the reflection. | 

“What the devil brings Porthos to Belle-Isle lifting stones >” said D’, 
tagnan ; only D’Artagnan uttered that question in a low voice. Less strc 
in diplomacy than his friend, Porthos thought aloud. 

“ How the devil did you come to Belle-Isle 2” asked he of D’Artagn, 
“and what do you come to do here?’ It was necessary to reply wi 
out hesitation. To hesitate in his answer to Porthos would have beer 
check, for which the self-love of D’Artagnan would never have consol 
itself 

“ Pardieu! my friend ; I am at Belle-Isle, because you are here.” 

“Ah, bah !” said Porthos, visibly stupefied with the argument, and se 
ing to account for it to himself, with that lucidity of deduction which ‘ 
know to be peculiar to him. 

“Without doubt,” continued D’Artagnan, unwilling to give his frie 
time to recollect himself, “I have been to see you at Pierrefonds.” 

“Indeed !”——~—“ Yes.” : 

“And you did not find me there ?” “No; but I found Mouston,” - 

*“Is he well ?” * Peste /” 

“Well, but Mouston did not tell you I was here.” : 

“Why should he not? Have I, perchance, deserved to lose his c 
fidence ?” 

“No; but he did not know it.” 

“Well ; that is a reason at least not offensive to my self-love.” 

“Then, how did you manage to find me ?” 

“My dear friend, a great noble, like you, always leaves traces behi 
him on his passage ; and I should think but poorly of myself, if I were 
sharp enough to follow the traces of my friends.” This explanati 
flattering as it was, did not entirely satisfy Porthos. 

“But I left no traces behind me, as I came here disguised,” s 
Porthos. 

“Ah! You came disguised, did you?” said D’Artagnan,——“ Yes,” 

“ And how?’——“ As a miller.” 

“And do you think a great noble like you, Porthos, can affect commo 
manners so as to deceive people?” 

“Well, I swear to you, my friend, that I played my part-so well tha 
everybody was deceived.” 

“Indeed : so well, that I have not discovered and joined you 2” 

“Yes ; but how have you discovered and joined me ?” 

“Stop a bit. I was going to tell you how. Do you imagin 
Mouston—— ?” 1 ae 

“Ah! it was that fellow, Mouston,” said Porthos, gathering togethe 
those two triumphant arches which served him for eyebrows. 

“But stop I tell you ;—it was no fault of Mouston’s, because he wa 
ignorant of where you were.” 

‘““T know he was ; and that is why I am in such haste to understand—-~ 

“Oh! how impatient you are, Porthos !” “eit 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 307 


“When I do not comprehend, I am terrible.” 

“Well, you will understand. Aramis wrote to you at Pierrefonds, did 
e not ?” 
ie Yes “ And he told you to come before the equinox.” . 

© That is true.,——“ Well! that is it ;” said D’Artagnan, hoping that 
iis reason would satisfy Porthos. Porthos appeared to give himself up 
) a violent mental labour. 

' © Ves, yes,” said he, “I understand. As Aramis told me to come before 
ye equinox, you have understood that that was to join him. You then 
quired where Aramis was, saying to yourself, ‘Where Aramis is, there 
“orthos will be.’ You have learnt that Aramis was in Bretagne, and you 
aid to yourself, ‘Porthos is in Bretagne.’ ” 

' “Exactly! In good truth, Porthos, I cannot tell why you have not 
‘rned conjuror. So you understand that, arriving at Roche-Bernard, I 
eard of the splendid fortifications going on at Belle-Isle. The account 
rised my curiosity. I embarked in a fishing-boat, without dreaming that 
ou were here: I came, and I saw a fine fellow lifting a stone which Ajax 
ould not have stirred. I cried out, ‘ Nobody but the Baron de Bracieux 
yuld have performed such a feat of strength.’ You heard me, you turned 
und, you recognized me, we embraced ; and, ma for/ if you like, my 
yar friend, we will embrace again.” 

“Ah! now it is all explained,” said Porthos; and he embraced D’Ar- 
ignan with so much friendship as to deprive the musketeer of his breath 
br five minutes, 

| “ Why you are stronger than ever,” said D’Artagnan, “and sti in your 
rms.” Porthos saluted D’Artagnan with a gracious smile. During the 
ve minutes D’Artagnan was recovering his breath, he reflected that he 
ad a very difficult partto play. It was necessary that he should question 
ithout ever replying. By the time his respiration returned, he had fixed 


s plan of the campaign, 


gee ee 


CHAPTER LXx. 


|WHEREIN THE IDEAS OF D’ARTAGNAN, AT FIRST VERY TROUBLED, 
BEGIN TO CLEAR UP A LITTLE. 


BARTAGNAN immediately took the offensive. ‘ Nowthat I have told you 
dear friend, or rather now you have guessed all, tell me what you 
» doing here, covered with dust and mud ?” 
| Porthos wiped his brow, and looked around him with pride. Why, it 
: pears,” said he, “that you may see what I am doing here.” 

‘‘ No doubt, no doubt ; youlift great stones.” 

“Oh! to show these idle fellows what a man is,” said Porthos, with 

ntempt. “But you understand——” 

“Ves, that it is not your place to lift stones, although there are many 
vhose place it is, who cannot liftthem as you do. It was that which made 
ne ask you, just now, what are you doing here, baron ?” 

““T am studying topography, chevalier.” 

“You are studying topography ?” 

“Ves ; but you—what are you doing in that common dress ?” 

D’Artagnan perceived he had committed a fault in giving expression to 
lis astonishment. Porthos had taken advantage of it, to retort with a 
juestion. ‘ Why,” said he, “you know I am a bourgeois, in fact ; my 
iress, then, has nothing astonishing in it, sincé it conforms with my con- 
lition,” bier Zi . 

20—2 


\ #2 


308 THE ViCOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“Nonsense! you are a musketeer.” 

“You are wrong, my friend ; I have given in my resignation.” 

“Bah !”——“ Oh, mon Dieu ! yes.” 

“And have you abandoned the service ?”—“ I have quitted it.” 

“You have abandoned the king ?” * Quite.” 

Porthos raised his arms towards heaven, like a man who has heard ext 
ordinary news. “Well, that does confound me,” said he. 

“Tt is nevertheless true.” 

“And what led you to form sucha resolution »” 

“The king displeased me Mazarin haddisgusted me for along time, 
you know ; so I threw my cassock to the nettles.” 

“But Mazarin is dead.” 

“I know that well enough, gardieu! Only at the period of his dea 
my resignation had been given in and accepted two months. Then, feeli 
myself free, I set off for Pierrefonds, to see my friend Porthos. I had hez 
talk of the happy division you had made of your time, and I wished fo: 
fortnight, to divide mine after your fashion.” 

‘My friend, you know that it is not for a fortnight the house is open 
you ; it is for a year—for ten years—for life.” 

“Thank you, Porthos.” 

“Ah! but perhaps you want money—do you ?” said Porthos, mak 
something like fifty louis chink in his pocket. “In that case, 
know « ; 

“No, thank you; I am not in want of anything. I placed my savi 
with Planchet, who pays me the interest of them.” 

“Your savings ?” 

“Yes, to be sure,” said D’Artagnan ; “ why should I not put by savin 
as well as another, Porthos >” 

“Oh, there is no reason why ; on the contrary, I always suspected y 
—that is to say, Aramis always suspected you to have savings. For 
own part, d’ye see, I take no concern about the management of my hou 
hold ; but I presume the savings of a musketeer must be small,” 

“No doubt, relative to yourself, Porthos, who are a millionaire ; but 
shall judge. I had laid by twenty-five thousand livres.” 

“ That’s pretty well,” said Porthos, with an affable air. B 

“And,” continued D’Artagnan, “on the twenty-eighth of last mont 
added to it two hundred thousand livres more.” 

Porthos opened his large eyes, which eloquently demanded of the n 
keteer, Where the devil did you steal such a sum as that, my dear fries 
“Two hundred thousand livres !” cried he at length. 

“Yes ; which with the twenty-five I had, and twenty thousand 
as about me, complete the sum of two hundred and forty-five thousa 
ivres.” 

“But tell me, whence comes this fortune ?” 

“T will tell you all about it presently, dear friend; but as you hav 
in the first place, many things to tell me yourself, let us place my recitz 
In its proper rank.” 


“Bravo !” said Porthos ; “then we are both rich. But what can I hav 
to relate to you ?” 


You have to relate to me how Aramis came to be named—-——” 
“Ah ! bishop of Vannes.” 


“That’s it,” said D’Artagnan, “bishop of Vannes. Dear Aramis ! d 
you know how he succeeded so well a 


“Yes, yes ; without reckoning that he does not mean to stop there,” 


| a 
D'ARTAGNAN’S IDEAS BEGIN 0s 
‘What ! do you mean he will not be contented with violet stockings, 
that he wants a red hat?” 
Hush ! that is promised him.” 
Bah ! by the king ?” 
‘By somebody more powerful than the king.” 
| ae the devil! Porthos, what incredible things you tell me, my 
md !” 
‘Why incredible? Is there not always somebody in France more 
verful than the king ?” 
‘Oh yes; in the time of King Louis XIII. it was Cardinal Richelieu; 
the time of the regency it was Cardinal Mazarin. In the time of 
vis XIV. it is M@ia——” 
* Go on.”——“ It is M. Fouquet.” 
“Jove! you have hit it the first time.” 
ee then, I suppose it is M. Fouquet who has promised Aramis the 
hat ?” 
Porthos assumed an air of reserve. “ Dear friend,” said he, “ God pre- 
rve me from meddling with the affairs of others, above all from revealing 
crets it may be to their interests to be kept. When you see Aramis, he 
Al tell you all he thinks he ought to tell you.” 
“ You are right, Porthos ; and you are quite a padlock for safety. But, 


/ revert to yourself ?”——“ Yes,” said Porthos. 
“ You said just now you came hither to study topography ?” 
I did so.” 


“ Ty Dieu! my friend, what fine things you will do ?” 

« How do you mean ?” 

«“ Why, these fortifications are admirable.” 

“Ts that your opinion ?” 
“ Doubtless it is. In truth, to anything but a regular siege, Belle-Isle 
impregnable.” 
Porthos rubbed his hands. “ That is my opinion,” said he. 
“ But who the devil has fortified this paltry little place in this manne 
Porthos drew himself up proudly : “Did not I tell you who ?” 
“ No.”—* Do you not suspect ?” 
“No; all that I can say is that he is a man who has studied all the 
stems, and who appears to me to have stopped at the best.” 
“ Hush !” said Porthos ; “ consider my modesty, my dear D’Artagnan?? 
“In truth,” replied the musketeer, “can it be you——who——oh !” 
_ & Pray——my dear friend ——” 

“You who have imagined, traced, and ccmbined between these bastions, 
hese redans, these curtains, these halfmoons ; and are preparing that 


covered way ?” 

pipes your ——" eoneet Fea She 

“ You who have built that lunette with its retiring angles and its salient 
angles.” 


“My friend ——” edad. ¥. 
“ You who have given that inclination to the openings of your embra- 


sures, by the means of which you so effectively protect the men who serve 
the guns ?” 


“Eh! mon Dieu! yes.” 
“ Oh! Porthos, Porthos! I must bow down before you—I must ad- 


mire you! But you have always concealed from us this superior genius. 
I hope, my dear friend, you will show me all this in detail ?” 
** Nothing more easy. There is my plan.” 


| ; 


i 


re DE BRAGELONNE, 
~ © Show it me.” Porthos led D’Artagnan towards the stone which serve 


him for a table, and upon which the plan was spread. At the foot of tk 
plan was written, in the formidable writing of Porthos, writing of whic 
we have already had occasion to speak :— 
“Instead of making use of the square or rectangle, as has been dor 
to this time, you will suppose your place inclosed in a regular hexago1 
this polygon having the advantage of offering more angles than th 
quadrilateral one. Every side of your hexagon, of which you wi 
determine the length in proportion to the dimensions taken upon th 
place, will be divided into two parts, and upon the middle point yo 
will elevate a perpendicular, towards the centre of the polygon, whic 
will equal in length the sixth part of the side. By the extremities ¢ 
each side of the polygon, you will trace two diagonals, which will cut t 
perpendicular. These two rights will form the lines of the defence.” 
“ The devil !” said D’Artagnan, stopping at this point of the demonstre 
tion ; “ why, this is a complete system, Porthos.” 
“Entirely,” said Porthos. “ Will you continue 2” 
“No; I have read enough of it ; but since it is you, my dear Portho; 
who direct the works, what need have you of setting down your system 
formally in writing >” 
“Oh! my dear friend, death !” 
“How ! death »” 
“Why, we are all mortal, are we not 2” 
“ That is true,” said D’Artagnan, “you have a reply for everything, mf] 
friend.” And he replaced the plan upon the stone. . 
But however short a time he had the plan in his hands, D’Artagnan hat 
been able to distinguish under the enormous writing of Porthos, a muc 
more delicate hand, which reminded him of certain letters to Mari 
Michon, with which he had been acquainted in his youth. Only t 
India-rubber had passed and repassed so often over this writing, that 
might have escaped a less practised eye than that of our musketeer. 
“Bravo! my friend, bravo !” said D’Artagnan. 
‘And now you know all that you want to know, do you not?” sa 
Porthos, wheeling about. 
“ Mordioux / yes, only do me one last favour, dear friend !” 
‘Speak, I am master here.” 
‘Dome the pleasure to tell me the name of that gentleman who is wakey 
ing yonder.” a | 
‘“‘ Where, there >” “ Behind the soldiers.” 
“ Followed bya lackey ?” “¢ Exactly.” 
“In company with a mean sort of fellow dressed in black ?” 
“Yes, I mean him.” 
“ That is M. Gétard ?” “And who is Gétard, my friend ?” 
. “He is the architect of the house.”——“ Of what house »” ; 
“ Of M. Fouquet’s house.”»——“ Ah! ah !” cried D’Artagnan ; “youare 
of the household of M. Fouquet, then, Porthos ?” : 
“I! what do you mean by that ?” said the topographer, blushing to the 
tips of his ears. 
“Why, you say the house, when speaking of Belle-Isle, as if you were 
speaking of the chateau of Pierrefonds.” me 
_ Porthos bit his lips. “ Belle-Isle, my friend,” said he, “belongs to M, 
Fouquet, does it not ?” 
“Yes, I believe so.” | 
“As Pierrefonds belongs to me.” __ od 


DARTAGNAN’S LDEAS BEGIN TO CLEAR UP. 311 


I told you I believed so; there are not two words to that.” 
Did you ever see a man there who is accustomed to walk about with a 


‘rin his hand ?” 
No: but I might have seen him there, if he really walked there.” 


Well, that gentleman is M. Boulingrin.” 


‘Who is M. Boulingrin 2” 
‘Now we come to it. If, when this gentleman 1s walking with a ruler in 


hand, any one should ask me,—‘ Who is M. Boulingrin? I should 
ly: ‘He is the architect of the house.’ Well! M. Gétard is the 
ulingrin of M. Fouquet. But he has nothing to do with the fortifica- 
ns, which are my department alone, do you understand ? mine, abso- 
ely mine.” 
“Ah! Porthos,” cried D’Artagnan, letting his arms fall as a conquered 
in gives up his sword ; “ah! my friend, you are not only a Herculean 
sographer, you are, still further, a dialectician of the first water.” 
“Ts it not powerfully reasoned >» said Porthos ; and he puffed and blew 
-e the conger which D’Artagnan had let slip from his hand. 
“ And now,” said D’Artagnan, “that shabby-looking man who accom- 
nies M. Gétard, is he also of the household of M. Fouquet ?” 

“Oh! yes,” said Porthos, with contempt; “it is one M. Jupenet, or 


ponet, a sort of maet 
‘Who is come to establish himself here ?” 


“T believe so.” 
“JT thought M. Fouquet had poets enough, yonder—Scudery, Loret, 
ellisson, La Fontaine? If I must tell you the truth, Porthos, that poet 


isgraces you.” ; 
“Eh !—my friend ; but what saves us is that he is not here as a poet.” 


“As what then is he?” 
“ As printer. And you make me remember, I have a word to say to the 


yistre.” 

“Say it, then.” 
Porthos made a sign to Jupenet, who perfectly recollected D’Artagnan, 

nd did not care to come nearer ; which naturally produced another sign 

‘om Porthos. This was so imperative, he was obliged to obey. As he 


pproached, “ Come hither !” said Porthos. “ You only landed yesterday, 


ad you have begun your tricks already.” 
: “ How so, monsieur le baron 2” asked Jupenet, trembling. 
“ Your press was groaning all night, monsieur,” said Porthos, ‘and you 


i 
jrevented my sleeping, core de bauf!” - 
“ Monsieur——” objected Jupenet, timidly. 
“You have nothing yet to print ; therefore, you have no occasion to set 
your press going. What did you print last night.” 
“ Monsieur, a light poem of my own composition.” 
“Light! no, no, monsieur ; the press groaned pitifully with it. Let that 
not happen again. Do you understand ?»——“ No, monsieur.” 
“You promise me ?”?——“ I do, monsieur.” 
“Very well: this time I pardon you. Adieu |” 
“ Well, now we have combed that fellow’s head, let us breakfast.” 
“ Ves,” replied D’Artagnan, “Jet us breakfast.” 
“ Only,” said Porthos, “I beg you to observe, my friend, that we have 


only two hours for our repast.” 
“What would you have? We will try to make enough of it. But why 


have you only two hours v 
«Because it is high tide at one o’clock, and, with the tide, [ am going to 


Sy gett THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


Vannes. But, as I shall return to-morrow, my dear friend, you can st: 
here ; you shall be master; I havea good cook and a good cellar.” 


“ No,” interrupted D’Artagnan, “ better than that.”—-—“ What »” 
“You are going to Vannes, you say ?”—-—-“To a certainty.” 
* To see Aramis ??-—“ Yes,” 


“Well! I came from Paris on purpose to see Aramis.” 

“That’s true.” 

“T will go with you then.”—-—“ Do ; that’s the thing.” | 

“Only, I ought to have seen Aramis first, and you after. But mz 
proposes, and God disposes. I have begun with you, and will finish wit 
Aramis.” —-—“ Very well.” 

“ And in how many hours can you go from hence to Vannes ?” 

“Oh! fardiew/ in six hours. Three hours by sea to Sarzeau, thre 
hours by road from Sarzeau to Vannes.” 

“How convenient that is! Being so near to the bishopric ; do yo 
often go to Vannes ?” 

“Yes ; once a week. But, stop till I get my plan.” 

Porthos picked up his plan, folded it carefully, and engulfed it in hi 
large pocket. 

“Good !” said D’Artagnan aside ; “I think I now know the true eng 
neer who is fortifying Belle-Isle.” 

Two hours after, at -high tide, Porthos and D’Artagnan set out fi 
Sarzeau. 


| 


Se ee 


CHAPTER LXXL. 
A PROCESSION AT VANNES, 


his voyage, and which, shaped for fast sailing and destined for the chas 
were sheltered at that time in the road of Loc-Maria, where one of the 
with a quarter of its war-crew, performed the duty between Belle-Isle a 
the continent. D’Artagnan had an opportunity of convincing himself th 


and the refolds of his Porthos not to find a secret if there were one ther 
like those regular, minute old bachelors, who know how to find, with the 
eyes shut, each book on the shelves of their library, and each piece o 
linen in their wardrobe. Then, if he had found nothing, that cunning 
D’Artagnan, in rolling and unrolling his Porthos, it was because, in trutk, 
there was nothing to be found. 

“Be it so,” said D’Artagnan ; “T shall know more at Vannes in half an 
hour than Porthos has known at Belle-Isle in two months. Only, in order 
that I may know something, it is important that Porthos does not make 
use of the only stratagem I leave at his disposal : he must not warn Aramis 
of my arrival.” All the cares of the musketeer were then, for the moment, 
confined to the watching of Porthos. And let us hasten to say, Porthos 
did not deserve all this mistrust. Porthos thought of no evil. Perhaps, 
on first seeing-him, D’Artagnan had inspired him with a little suspicion ; 
but almost immediately D’Artagnan had reconquered in that good and 
brave heart the place he had always occupied, and not the least cloud 
darkened the large eye of Porthos, fixed from time to time with tenderness 
on his friend, ae) oe 


BRE gs Sa Sem le 


4 PROCESSION AT' VANNES. 313 


‘On landing, Porthos inquired if his horses were waiting, and he soon 
rceived them at the crossing of the road which turns round Sarzeau, 
d which, without passing through that little city, leads towards Vannes. 
ese horses were two in number—one for M. de Valon, and one for his 
querry ; for Porthos had an equerry since Mouston was only able to use 
carriage as a means of locomotion. D’Artagnan expected that Porthos 
ould propose to send forward his equerry upon one horse to bring back 
other horse, and he (D’Artagnan) had made up his mind to oppose this 
roposition. But nothing which D’Artagnan had expected happened. 
orthos simply told the equerry to dismount and await his return at 
arzeau, whilst D’Artagnan would ride his horse, which was done. 

“Eh! but you are quite a man of precaution, my dear Porthos,” said 
y Artagnan to his friend, when he found himself in the saddle upon the 

uerry’s horse. 

“Ves ; but this is a kindness on the part of Aramis. I have not my 
tud here, and Aramis has placed his stables at my disposal.” 

“ Good horses for bishop’s horses, mordioux 2 said D’Artagnan. “SiS 


rue, Aramis is a pishop of a peculiar kind.” 
«“ He is a holy man!” replied Porthos, in a tone almost nasal, and with 


iis eyes raised towards heaven. 
“‘ Then he is much changed,” said D’Artagnan ; “you and I have known 


iim passably profane.” 

“ Grace has touched him,” said Porthos. 

“Bravo !” said D’Artagnan ; “that redoubles my desire to see my dear 
old friend.” And he spurred his horse, which sprang off into a more rapid 


pace. 
«& Peste |? said Porthos, “ if we go on at this rate, we shall only take one 


our instead of two.” 
“To go how far do you say, Porthos 2°“ Four leagues and a half.” 


“ That will be a good pace.” 


“J could have embarked you on the canal, but the devil take rowers and 


oat-horses ! The first are like tortoises, the second like snails ; and when 
4, man is able to put a good horse between his knees, that horse is better 


4orth than rowers or any other means.” 
“You are right ; you, above all, Porthos, who always look magnificent 


’sn horseback.” 

“ Rather heavy, my friend ; I was weighed the other day.” 

“ And what do you weigh 2” 

: d «Three hundredweight !” said Porthos, proudly. 

rf & Bravo” “So that, you must perceive, that I am forced to choose 


Horses whose loins are straight and wide, otherwise I break them down in 

two hours.” 

“Yes, giant’s horses you must have, must you not ? 

“You are very polite, my friend,” replied the engineer, with an affectioiate 
majesty. 

“ As a case in point,” replied D’Artagnan, 
already.” 

“ Dame! itis hot! Ah,ah! do you see Vannes now " 

“Yes, perfectly. It is a handsome city, apparently.” 

“ Charming—according to Aramis, at least ; but I think it black. But 
black seems to be considered handsome by artists ; | am very sorry for it.” 

“Why so, Porthos °” 

“ Because I have lately had my chateau of Pierrefonds, which was grey 


with age, plastered white.” 


i 


“your horse seems to sweat 


314° THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. - 


“ Humph !” said D’Artagnan, “ but white is more cheerful.” Con 

“Ves, but it is less august, as Aramis tells me. Fortunately there are}... 
dealers in black as well as white. I will have Pierrefonds replastered in} 
black—that is, the whole of it. If grey is handsome, you understand, my}. 
friend, black must be superb.” 

“ Dame! said D’Artagnan, “that appears logical.” 

“Were you never at Vannes, D’Artagnan ?” 

* Never.” ——“ Then you know nothing of the city ?” “ Nothing.” 

“ Well, lock !” said Porthos, raising himself in his stirrups, which made 
the fore-quarters of his horse bend sadly, “do you see that corner, in the}. 
sun, yonder?”—-—“ Yes, I see it plainly.” 4 


“Well, that is the cathedral.” ——“ Which is called ?” le 

“Saint-Pierre. Now, look again—in the faubourg on the left, do yout. 
see another cross ?”?——“ Perfectly well.” | 

“That is Saint-Paterne, the parish preferred by Aramis.” —-—“ Indeed !” 


“ Without doubt. Saint-Paterne, see you, passes for having been the}* 
first bishop of Vannes. It is true that Aramis pretends that he was not ; 
but he is solearned that that may be only a paro—a para——” 

“ But a paradox,” said D’Artagnan. 

“ Precisely ; thank you! My tongue trips; I am so hot.” i. 

“ My friend,” said D’Artagnan, “ continue your interesting description,} 
I beg. What is that large white building with many windows ?” 

“Oh! that is the college of the Jesuits. Pardew! you have a luck 
hand. Do you see, close to the college, a large house with steeples, turrets, }} 
and built in a handsome Gothic style, as that brute, M. Gétard, says?” J} 

“Ves, that is plainly to be seen. Well ?” 

“Well, that is where Aramis resides.” 

“What! does he not reside at the episcopal palace ?” 

“No; that isin ruins. The palace likewise is in the city, and Aramis 
prefers the faubourgs. That is why, as I told you, he is partial to Saint 
Paterne ; Saint-Paterne is in the faubourg. Besides, there are in thig 
faubourg a mail, a tennis-court, and a house of Dominicans. Look, that 
where the handsome steeple rises to the heavens.” “Well 2” 

“Next, see you, the faubourg is like a separate city, it has its walls, its 
towers, its ditches ; the quay is upon it likewise, and the boats land at the 
quay. If our little corsair did not draw eight feet water, we could hay 
come full sail up to Aramis’s windows.” 74 

“ Porthos, Porthos,” cried D’Artagnan, “you are a well of knowledge, 
spring of ingenious and profound reflections. Porthos, you no longer su 
prise me, you confound me.” a 

‘Here we are arrived,” said Porthos, turning the conversation with his| 
usual modesty. . 

“And high time we were,” thought D’Artagnan, “ for Aramis’s horse is 
melting away like a horse of ice.” They entered almost at the same instant 
into the faubourg ; but scarcely had they gone a hundred paces when they 
were surprised to find the streets strewed with leaves and flowers. Against 
the old walls of Vannes, were hung the oldest and the strangest tapestries 
of France. From over balconies fell long white sheets stuck all over with 
bouquets. The streets were deserted ; it was plain that the whole popu-. 
lation was assembled on one point. The blinds were closed, and the 
breeze penetrated into the houses under the hangings, which cast long 
black shades between their places of issue and the walls. Suddenly, at 
the turning of a street, chants struck the ears of the newly arrived travellers. 
A crowd in holiday garb appeared through the vapours of incense which 


dntea to the heavens in biue Mocks, ana Ciouds OF fose-ieaves hew up 
\iyfaigh as the first stories. Above all heads were to be seen the cross and 
iyjmers, the sacred symbols of religion. Then, beneath these crosses and 
iners, as if protected by them, was a whole w ‘orld of young girls, clothed 
white, and crowned with corn-flowers. At the two sides of the street, 
losing the cortége, marched the guards of the garrison, carrying bouquets 
the barrels of their muskets and on the points of their lances. This was 
(J rocession. Whilst D’Artagnan and Porthos were looking cn with a 
vour of good taste, which disguised an extreme impatience to get for- 
rd; a magnificent dais approached, preceded by a hundred Jesuits and 
aundred Dominicans, and escorted by two archdeacons, a treasurer, a 
yf nitentiary, and twelve canons. A chanter with a thundering voice—a 
anter® certainly picked out from all the voices of France, as was the 
”fum-major of the imperial guard from all the giants of the empire—a 
sfjanter escorted by four other chanters, who appeared to be there only to 
wirve him as an accompaniment, made the air resound, and the windows 

all the houses vibrate. Under the dais appeared a pale and noble 
uuntenance, with black eyes, black hair streaked with threads of white, a 
slicate, compressed mouth, a prominent and angular chin. ‘This head, 
i) of graceful majesty, was covered with the episcopal mitre, a head-dress 
hich gave it, in addition to the character of sovereignty, that of ascetism 
ad evangelic meditation. 

“ Aramis !” cried the musketeer, involuntarily, as this lofty countenence 
assed before him. ‘The prelate started at the sound of the voice. He 
iised his large black eyes, with their long lashes, and turned them with- 
ut hesitation towards the spot whence the exclamation proceeded. Ata 
lance, he saw Porthos and D’Artagnan close to him. On his part, D’Ar- 
agnan, thanks to the keenness of his sight, had seen all, seized all. The 
ull portrait of the prelate had entered his memory, never to leave it. One 
hing had particularly struck D’Artagnan. On perceiving him, Aramis 
‘ad coloured, then he had concentrated under his eyelids the fire of the 
bok of the master, and the imperceptible affection of the look of the friend. 
tt was evident that Aramis addressed this question to himself: ‘Why is 
D’Artagnan with Porthos, and what does he want at Vannes?” Aramis 
lomprehended all that was passing in the mind of D’Artagnan, on turning 
4is look upon him again, and seeing that he had not low ered his eyes. He 
Sew the acuteness and intelligence of his friend ; he feared to let him 
ivine the secret of his blush and his astonishment. He was still the same 
ramis, always having a secret to conceal. Therefore, to put an end to 
his look of an inquisitor, which it was necessary to get rid of at all ev ents, 
is, at any price, a general extinguishes a battery which annoys him, 
Aramis stretched forth his beautiful white hand, upon which sparkled the 
methyst of the pastoral ring ; he cut the air with the sign of the cross, 
ind poured out his benediction upon his two friends. Perhaps, though. t- 
ul and absent, D’Artagnan, impious in spite of himself, might not have 
ent beneath this holy “benediction ; but Porthos saw his distraction, and 
aying his friendly hand upon the back of his companion, he crushed him 
lown towards the earth. D’Artagnan was forced to give way ; indeed, he 
vas little short of being flat on the ground, In the mean time Aramis had 
assed. D’Artagnan, like Antaeus, had only touched the ground, and he 
urned towards Porthos, almost angry. But there was no mistaking the 
ntention of the brave Hercules ; it was a feeling of religious propriety 
hat had influenced him. Besides, speech, with Porthos, “instead of dis- 

‘uising his thought, always completed it. 


316 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. | 

“It is very polite of him,” said he, “to have given his benediction to us 
alone. Decidedly, he is a holy man, and a brave man.” Less convinced 
than Porthos, D’Artagnan made no reply. | 

“Observe, my friend,” continued Porthos, “he has seen us ; and, 
instead of continuing to walk on at the simple pace of the procession, a 
he did just now,—see, what a hurry he is in ; do you see how the corté, 
is increasing its speed? He is eager to join us and embrace us, is tha 
dear Aramis: 

“That is true,” replied D’Artagnan, aloud.—Then to himself :—“ It j 
equally true, he has seen me, the fox, and will have time to prepare himses 
to receive me.” 

But the procession had passed ; the road was free. D’Artagnan an 
Porthos walked straight up to the episcopal palace, which was surrounde 
by a numerous crowd, anxious to see the prelate return. D’Artagnan re. 
marked, that this crowd was composed principally of citizens and military 
‘men. He recognised in the nature of these partisans the address of his 
friend. Aramis was not the man to seek for a useless popularity. He 


cared very little for being beloved by people who could be of no service . 


him. Women, children, and old men, that is to say, the cortége of ordin 
ary pastors, was not the cortége for him. \ 

Ten minutes after the two friends had passed the threshold of th 
palace, Aramis returned like a triumphant conqueror; the soldiers pre 
sented arms to him as to a superior ;_ the citizens bowed to him as to | 
friend and a patron, rather than as a head of the Church. There wae 


more secretly, passed hig head under the dais. He then re-entered his 
palace ; the doors closed slowly, and the crowd melted away, whilst chant? 
and prayers were still resounding abroad. It was a magnificent day 
Farthly perfumes were mingled with the perfumes of the air and the se 
The city breathed happiness, joy, and strength. D’Artagnan felt some 
thing like the presence of an invisible hand which had, all-powerfully, 
created this strength, this joy, this happiness, and spread everywhere thes 
perfumes. 

“Oh! oh!” said he, “ Porthos has got fat ; but Aramis is grown taller | 


————e 


CHAPTER T2Cxr. 
THE GRANDEUR OF THE BISHOP OF VANNES, 


PORTHOS and D’Artagnan had entered the bishop’s residence by a private 
door, as his personal friends, Of course, Porthos served D’Artagnan as 
guide. The worthy baron comported himself everywhere rather as if he 
were at home. Nevertheless, whether it was a tacit acknowledgment of 
the sanctity of the personage of Aramis and his character, or the habit 
of respecting him who imposed upon him morally, a worthy habit which 
had always made Porthos a model soldier and an excellent companion ; 
for all these reasons, Say we, Porthos preserved in the palace of His Great- 
ness the Bishop of Vannes a sort of reserve which D’Artagnan remarked 
at once, in the attitude he took with respect to the valets and officers. And 
yet this reserve did not goso far as to prevent his asking questions. | 
Porthos questioned. They learned that His Greatness had just returned | 
to his apartment, and was preparing to appear in familiar intimacy, less 


THE GRANDEUR OF THE BISHOP OF VANNES. 317 


ajestic than he had appeared with his flock. After a quarter of an hour, 
jich D’Artagnan and Porthos passed in looking mutually at each other 
th the white of their eyes, and turning their thumbs in all the different 
colutions which go from north to south, a door of the chamber opened, 
_dHis Greatness appeared, dressed in the undress, complete, of a prelate. 
‘amis carried his head high, like a man accustomed to command ;_ his 
slet robe was tucked up on one side, and his white hand was on his hip. 
‘e had retained the fine moustache, and the lengthened royade of the time 
"Louis XIII. He exhaled, on entering, that delicate perfume which, 
nong elegant men and women of high fashion, never changes, and 
ypears to be incorporated in the person, of whom it has become the natural 
nanation. In this case only, the perfume had retained something of the 
Jigious sublimity of incense. It no longer intoxicated, it penetrated ; it 
9 longer inspired desire, it inspired respect. Aramis, on entering the 
1amber, did not hesitate an instant ; and without pronouncing one word, 
hich, whatever it might be, would have been cold on such an occasion, 
e went straight up to the musketeer, so well disguised under the costume 
f M. Agnan, and pressed him in his arms with a tenderness which the 
iost mistrustful could not have suspected of coldness or affectation. 
D’Artagnan, on his part, embraced him with equal ardour. Porthos 
ressed the delicate hand of Aramis in his immense hands, and D’Artagnan 
smarked that His Greatness gave him his left hand, probably from habit, 
eeing that Porthos already ten times, had been near injuring his fingers 
overed with rings, by pounding his flesh in the vice of his fist. Warned 
, the pain, Aramis was cautious, and only presented flesh to be bruised, 
nd not fingers to be crushed, against gold or the angles of diamonds. 
- Between two embraces, Aramis looked D’Artagnan in the face, offered 
‘im a chair, sitting down himself in the shade, observing that the light 
ell full upon the face of his interlocutor. The manceuvre, familiar to diplo- 
natists and women, resembles much the advantage of the guard which, 
iccording to their skill or habit, combatants endeavour to take on the 
rround at a duel. D’Artagnan was not the dupe of this manceuvre ; but 
ie did not appear to perceive it. He felt himself caught ; but, precisely 
yecause he was caught, he felt himself on the road to discovery, and it 
ittle imported to him, old condottiére as he was, to be beaten in appear- 
nce, provided he drew from his pretended defeat the advantages of vic- 
By. Aramis began the conversation. 
' « Ah! dear friend! my good D’Artagnan,” said he, “ what an excellent 


chance !” 

“Tt is a chance, my reverend companion,” said D’Artagnan, “that I will 
call friendship. I seek you, as I always have sought you, when | had any 
grand enterprise to propose to you, OF some hours of liberty to give you.” 

“ Ah! indeed,” said Aramis, without explosion, “ you have been seeking 
me °” 

“Eh! yes, he has been seeking you, Aramis,” said Porthos, “and the 
proof is that he has unharboured me at Belle-Isle. That 1s amiable, 1s 
; p? 

it not: ; 

“ Ah! yes,” said Araniis, “at Belle-Isle ! certainly.” ‘ a: 

“Good !” said D’Artagnan, “there is my booby Porthos, without thinking 
of it, has fired the first cannon ot attack.” ; 

“At Belle-Isic,” said Aramis, “in that hole, in that desert! That is 


kind indeed !” ; . 
“And it was I who told him you were at Vannes,” continued Porthos, 


in the same tone. 


318 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


1)’Artagnan armed his mouth with a finesse almost ironical, 

“ Yes, I knew, but I was willing to see,” replied he. 

“To see what ?” “If our old friendship still held out : if, on Seein 
each other, our heart, hardened as it is by age, would still let the old er 
of joy escape, which salutes the coming of a friend.” 


“Well, and you must have been satisfied,” said Aramis.——“ So, so.” 
« “ How is that?” “Yes, Porthos said hush! and you——” 
“Well! and I ?——“And you gave me your benediction.” 


“What would you have, my friend 2” said Aramis, smiling ; “that i 
the most precious thing that a poor prelate, like me, has to give.” 

“Indeed, my dear friend !"——-—“ Doubtless.” 

“And yet they say at Paris that the bishopric of Vannes is one of thx 
best in France.” 


“Ah! you are now speaking of temporal wealth,” said Aramis, withe 
careless air. 

“To be sure, I wish to speak of that ; I hold by it, on my part.” 

“In that case, let me speak of it,” said Aramis, with a smile. | 

“You own yourself to be one of the richest prelates in France ?” 

“ My friend, since you ask me to give you an account, I will tell you that 
the bishopric of Vannes is worth about twenty thousand livres a year, 
neither more nor less. It is a diocese which contains a hundred and sixt 
parishes.” : 

“That is very pretty,” said D’Artagnan, : 

“It is superb !” said Porthos. 

“And yet,” resumed D’Artagnan, throwing his eye over Aramis, “ you 
don’t mean to bury yourself here for ever ?” 

“Pardon me. Only I do not admit the word bury.” | 

“But it seems to me, that at this distance from Paris, aman is buried 
or nearly so.” 

“ My friend, I am getting old,” said Aramis ; “the noise and bustle o 
a city no longer suit me. At fifty-seven, we ought to seek calm and medi 
tation. J have found them here. What is there more beautiful, and ster 
at the same time, than this old Armorica. I find here, dear D’Artagnan, 
all that is opposite to what I formerly loved, and that is what must happen 
at the end of life, which is opposite to the beginning. A little of my ol 
pleasure of former times still comes to salute me here, now and then, with 
out diverting me from the road of salvation. I am still of this world, an 
yet, every step that I take, brings me nearer to God.” . 

“Eloquent, wise, and discreet ; you arc an accomplished prelate, Aramis 
and I offer you my congratulations.” 

“But,” said Aramis, smiling, “ you did not come here only for the pur= 
pose of paying me compliments. Speak, what brings you hither? May : 
it be that, in some fashion or other, you want me?” 

“Thank God, no, my friend,” said D’Artagnan, “it is nothing of that : 

! 
| 


kind,—I am rich and free.” 

“Rich !” exclaimed Aramis. 

“Yes, rich for me; not for you, or Porthos, understand. I have an in- 
come of about fifteen thousand livres,” 

Aramis looked at him suspiciously. He could not believe—particularly 
on seeing his friend in such humble guise—that he had made so fine a 
fortune. Then D’Artagnan, seeing that the hour for explanations was come, 
related the history of his English adventures, During the recital he saw 
ten times the eyes ofthe prelate sparkle, and his slender fingers work con- 
vulsively. As to Porthos, it was not admiration he manifested for D’Ar. 


THE GRANDEUR OF THE BISHOP OF VANNES. 319 


ignan, it was enthusiasm, it was delirium. When D’Artagnan had 
nished, ‘‘ Well !” said Aramis. 

“Well!” said D’Artagnan, “you see, then, I have in England friends 
nd property, in France a treasure. If your heart tells you so, I offer 
aem to you. That is what I came here for.” 

However firm was his look, he could not this time support the look of 
iramis. He allowed, therefore, his eye to stray upon Porthos,—like the 
word which yields to too powerful a pressure, and seeks another road. 

“ At all events,” said the bishop, “ you have assumed a singular travelling 
ostume, old friend.” 

“Frightful! I know it is. You may understand why I would not 
ravel as a cavalier or a noble: since I became rich I am miserly.” 

“And you say, then, you came to Belle-Isle?” said Aramis, without 
ransition. 

“Ves,” replied D’Artagnan ; “I knew I should find you and Porthos 
here.” 

“Find me !” cried Aramis. “ Me! For the last year past I have not once 
rossed the sea.” 

“Oh,” said D’Artagnan, “I should never have supposed you such a 
1ousekeeper.” 

“Ah, dear friend,I must tell you that I am no longer the man of former 
imes. Riding on horseback is unpleasant to me; the sea fatigues me. I 
im a poor ailing priest, always complaining, always grumbling, and in- 
Jined to the austerities which appear to accord with old age—parleys with 
leath. I abide, my dear D’Artagnan, I abide.” 

“Well, that is all the better, my friend, for we shall probably become 
1eighbours soon.” 

“Bah !” said Aramis, with a degree of surprise he did not even seek to 
lissemble. ‘“ You, my neighbour !” 

“ Mordiouxs ! yes.” 

“ How so?” ——“I am about to purchase some very profitable salt-mines, 
which are situated between Pirial and Croisic. Imagine, my friend, a clear 
orofit of twelve per cent. Never any deficiency, never any idle expenses ; 
he ocean, faithful and regular, brings every six hours its contingency to 
ny coffers. I am the first Parisian who has dreamt of sucha speculation. 
Oo not say anything about it, I beg of you, and in a short time we will 
‘ommunicate on the matter. I am to have three leagues of country for 
irty thousand livres.” 
| Aramis darted a look at Porthos, as if to ask if all this were true, if 
ibme snare were not concealed beneath this outward indifference. But 
soon, as if ashamed of having consulted this poor auxiliary, he collected 
ull his forces for a fresh assault and a fresh defence. “I heard that you 
had had some difference with the court, but that you had come out of 
it, as you know how to come out ofeverything, D’Artagnan, with the honours 
of war.” 

“T ! said the musketeer, with a burst of laughter that could not conceal 
is embarrassment : fox, from these words, Aramis was not unlikely to be 
acquainted with his last relations with the king. “JT! Oh, tell me all 
about that, pray, Aramis ?” 

“Yes ; itwas related to me,a poor bishop lost in the middle of the Landes, 
that the king had taken you as the confidant of his amours.” 

“With whom ?»——“ With Mademoiselle de Mancini.” ; 

D’Artagnan breathed freely again. “Ah! I don’t say no to that,” re- 
plied he, | 


320 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“It appears that the king took you, one morning, over the bridge at 
Blois, to talk with his lady-love.” 
“That’s true,” said D’Artagnan. “And you know that, do you? Weil, 
then, you must know that the same day I gave in my resignation.” 4 

“¢ What, sincerely ?” 

“ Nothing could be more sincere.” 

“Tt was after that, then, that you went to the Comte de la Fére’s 2” 

4 Yes.” 

“ Afterwards to me ?”—-—“ Yes,” 

“ And then Porthos ??—-—“ Yes.” 

“Was it in order to pay us a simple visit ?” a 

“No; I did not know you were engaged, and I wished to take you witl 
me into England.” 

“ Yes, I understand ; and then you executed alone, wonderful man ag 
you are, what you wanted to propose to us all four todo. Isuspected you 
had had something to do in that famous restoration, when I learnt ae 
you had been seen at King Charles’s receptions, and that he appeared te 
treat you like a friend, or rather like a person to whom he was under ai 
obligation.” i 

“ But how the devil could you learn all that ?” asked D’Artagnan, wh. 
began to fear that the investigations of Aramis would extend further tha 
he wished. 

“ Dear D’Artagnan,” said the prelate, “ my friendship resembles, in 3 
degree, the solicitude of that night-watch whom we have in the littl 
tower of the mole, at the extremity of the quay. That brave man ever 
night lights a lantern to direct the barques which come from sea. He 13 
concealed in his sentry-box, and the fishermen do not see him ; but he 
follows them with interest ; he divines them, he calls them ; he attract} 
them into the way to the port. I resemble this watcher; from time t4 
time some news reaches me, and recalls to my remembrance all that | 
loved. Then I follow the friends of old days over the stormy ocean of thi 
world ; I, a poor watcher, to whom God has kindly given the shelter of | 
sentry-box.” 

“Well, what did I do when I came from England 2” 

“ Ah! there,” replied Aramis, “ you get out of my sight. I knew nothi 
of you since your return, D’Artagnan ; my sight grows thick, I regrettd 
you did not think of me. I wept over your forgetfulness. I was wrorf 
I see you again, and it is a festival, a great festival, I swear to you !—H 
is Athos ?” 

“Very well, thank you.” 

“‘ And our young pupil, Raoul ?” 

“He seems to have inherited the skill of his father, Athos, and th} 
strength of his tutor, Porthos.” 

* And on what occasion have you been able to judge of that 2” 

“ih! mon Dieu! the eve of my departure from Paris.” 

“Indeed! what was it ?” 

“Ves; there was an execution at the Gréve; and, in consequence 
that execution a riot. We happened, by accident, to be in the riot ; and 
in this riot we were obliged to have recourse to our swords. And he did 
wonders.” | 

“ Bah ! what did he do?” : 

“Why, in the first place, he threw a man out of the window, as he would 
have thrown a bale of cotton.” . | 

“Come, that’s pretty well,” said Porthos, - 


- 


> 


THE -GRANDEUR OF THE BISHOP OF VANNES, 321 


“ Then he drew, and cut and thrust away, as we fellows used to do in 
od old times.” 

“ And what was the cause of this riot ?” said Porthos. 

‘D’Artagnan remarked upon the face of Aramis a complete indiffer- 
ice to this question of Porthos. ‘‘ Why,” said he, fixing his eyes upon 
ramis, ‘on account of two farmers of the revenues, friends of M. Fou- 
iet, whom the king forced to disgorge their plunder, and then hanged 
em.” 

A scarcely perceptible contraction of the prelate’s brow showed that he 
ad heard D’Artagnan’s reply. “Oh, oh ” said Porthos ; “and what were 
ie names of these friends of M. Fouquet ?” 

“MM. d@’Eymeris and Lyodot,” said D’Artagnan. “Do you know those 
ames, Aramis 2” 

“No,” said the prelate, disdainfully ; “they sound like the names of 
aanciers.” 

“Exactly; so they were.” 

“Oh! M. Fouquet allows his friends to be hanged, then,” said Porthos. 

“ And why not ?” said Aramis. “Why, it seems to me p 

“Tf these culprits were hanged, it was by order of the king. Now, M. 
ouquet, although surintendant of the finances, has not, I believe, the 
ght of life and death.” 

“ That may be,” said Porthos ; “ but in the place of M. Fouquet— ” 
Aramis was afraid Porthos was about to say something awkward, so in- 
srrupted him: “Come, D’Artagnan,” said he; “this is quite enough 
bout other people, let us talk a little about you.” 
© Of me you know all that I can tell you. On the contrary, let me hcar 
little about you, Aramis.” 

-“T have told you, my friend. There is nothing of Aramis left in me.” 
“Nor of the Abbé d’Herblay even ?” 

“No, not even of him. You see a man whom God has taken by the 
and, whom he has conducted to a position that he could never have dared 
ven to hope for.” 

“God?” asked D’Artagnan.——“ Yes.” 

“Well, that is strange! I have been told it was M. Fouquet.” 

“Who told you that ?” cried Aramis, without being able, with all the 
hes of his will, to prevent the colour rising to his cheeks. 

“ Ma foi / why, Bazin 2” 

|“ The fool !” 

-&T do not say he is a man of genius, it is true ; but he told me so ; and 
fter him I repeat it to you.” 

“T have never seen M. Fouquet,” replied Aramis, with a look as pure 
nd calm as that of a virgin who has never told a lie. 

“Well, but if you have seen him and known him, there is no harm in 
hat,” replied D’Artagnan. “M. Fouquet is a very good sort of a man.” 

“ Humph !” 

‘CA great politician.” Aramis made a gesture of indifference. 

“ An all-powerful minister.” 

“‘T only hold of the king and the pope.” 

“ Dame / listen then,” said D’Artagnan, in the most natural tone imagin- 
ble. “I said that because everybody here swears by M. Fouquet. The 
lain is M. Fouquet’s ; the salt-mines I am about to buy are M. Fouquet’s ; 
he island in which Porthos studies topography is M. Fouquet’s ; the garri- 
ion is M. Fouquet’s ; the galleys are M. Fouquet’s. I confess, then, 
hat nothing would have surprised me in your enfeoffment, or rather in 

21 


322 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


that of your diocese, to M. Fouquet. Heis another master than the king 
that is all; and quite as powerful as the king.” 

“Thank God! I am not enfeoffed to anybody ; I belong to nobody, ang 
am entirely my own,” replied Aramis, who, during this conversation, fo 
lowed with his eye every gesture of D’Artagnan, every glance of Portho@ 
But D’Artagnan was impassible and Porthos motionless ; the thrusts aime 
so skilfully were parried by an able adversary ; not one hit the mar 
Nevertheless, both began.to feel the fatigue of such a contest, and thf 
announcement of supper was well received by everybody. Supper changed 
the course of conversation. Besides, they felt that, upon their guard al 
each one had been, they could neither of them boast of having the adva 
tage. Porthos had understood nothing of what had beenmeant. He hag 
held himself motionless, because Aramis had made him a sign not to sti 
Supper, for him, was nothing but supper ; but that was quite enough fo 
Porthos. The supper, then, went off very well. D’Artagnan was in higf 
spirits. Aramis exceeded himself in kind affability. Porthos ate like olf 
Pelops. Their talk was of war, finance, the arts, and love. Aram 
played astonishment at every word of politics D’Artagnan risked. Ti.) 
long series of surprises increased the mistrust of D’Artagnan, as tk 
eternal indifference of D’Artagnan provoked the suspicions of Arami 
At length D’Artagnan, designedly uttered the name of Colbert: he ha 
reserved that stroke for the last. 

“Who is this Colbert ?” asked the bishop. 

“Oh! come,” said D’Artagnan to himself, “that is too strong! 
must be careful, #zordioux ! we must be careful.” 

And he then gave Aramis all the information respecting M. Colbert h 
could desire. The supper, or rather the conversation, was prolonged ti 
one o’clock in the morning between D’Artagnan and Aramis. At t@ 
o’clock precisely Porthos had fallen asleep in his chair, and snored like 
organ. At midnight he woke up, and they sent bim ‘to bed. “Hum 
said he, “I was near falling asleep ; but that was all very interesting y 
were talking about.” ! | 

At one o’clock Aramis conducted D’Artagnan to the chamber destin 
for him, which was the best in the episcopal residence. Two serva 
were placed at his command. “To-morrow, at eight o’clock,” said 1 
taking leave of D’Artagnan ; “we will take, if agreeable to you, a ride 
horseback with Porthos.” 

“ At eight o’clock !” said D’Artagnan ; “so late ?” 

‘You know that I require seven hours’ sleep,” said Aramis. 

*Thatiis true.” 

“Good night, dear friend!” Andhe embraced the musketeer cordiall 

D’Artagnan allowed him to depart; then, as soon as the door wa 
closed, “ Good !” cried he, “at five o’clock I will be on foot.” 

This determination being made, he went to bed, and “folded the viec 
together,” as people say, 


es ee ee 


CHAPTER LXXIII. 


IN WHICH PORTHOS BEGINS TO BE SORRY FOR HAVING COME WITE 
D’ARTAGNAN. 


SCARCELY had D’Artagnan extinguished his taper, when Aramis, wh 
had watched through his curtains the last glimmer of light in his friend’ 
apartment, traversed the corridor on tiptoe, and went to Porthos’s room 


| 


PORTHOS IS SORRY HE CAME WITH D’ARTAGNAN. 323 


1e giant, who had been in bed nearly an hour and a half, lay grandly 
‘etched out upon the down bed. He was in that happy calm of the 
st sleep, which, with Porthos, resisted the noise of bells or the report 
cannon ; his head swam in that soft oscillation which reminds us of 
2 soothing movement of a ship. In a moment Porthos would have 
gun to dream. The door of the chamber opened softly under the deli- 
te pressure of the hand of Aramis. The bishop approached the 
‘eper. A thick carpet deadened the sounds of his steps, besides which, 
thos snored ina manner to drown all noise. He laid one hand on 
; shoulder—“ Rouse,” said he, “wake up, my dear Porthos.” The. 
ice of Aramis was soft and kind, but it conveyed more than a notice, 
it conveyed an order. His hand was light, but it indicated a danger. 
thos heard the voice and felt the hand of Aramis, even in the pro- 
indness of his sleep. He started up: “ Who goes there ?” said he, in 
; giant’s voice. 

“Hush! hush! It is I,” said Aramis. 

You, my friend? And what the devil do you wake me for ?” 

“To tell you that you must set off directly.” 

Set off ?°-——“ Yes.” 

“Where for ?”——“ For Paris.” 

Porthos bounded up in his bed, and then sank back again, fixing his 
sat eyes in terror upon Aramis. 

For Paris ?”——“ Yes.” 

“ A hundred leagues ?” said he. 

* A hundred and four,” replied the bishop. 

“Oh ; mon Dieu ? sighed Porthos, lying down again, like those 
iidren who contend with their domve to gain an hour or two more 


ep. 
Thirty hours’ riding,” said Aramis, firmly. ‘ You know there are good 
ays.” 
Porthos pushed out one leg, allowing a groan to escape him. 
*Come, come! my friend,” insisted the prelate with a sort of impa- 
nce. 
Porthos drew the other leg out of the bed. “ And is it absolutely neces- 
y that I should go ?” said he.——“ Urgently necessary.” 
“ping got upon his feet and began to shake both walls and floors with 
_Steps of a marble statue. : : 
‘Hush ! hush! for the love of Heaven, my dear Porthos !” said Aramis, 
ou will wake somebody.” 
‘Ah! that’s true,” replied Porthos in a voice of thunder, “I fcrgot 
it ; but be satisfied, I will observe.” And so saying, he let fall a belt 
ded with his sword and pistols, and a purse, from which the crowns 
aped with a vibrating and prolonged noise. ‘This noise made the blood 
Aramis boil, whilst it drew from Porthos a formidable burst of laughter. 
Jow droll that is !” said he, in the same voice. 
‘Not so loud, Porthos, not so loud.” 
‘True, true !” and he lowered his voice a half-note. 
‘I was going to say,” continued Porthos, “that it is droll that we ate 
yer so slow as when we are in a hurry, and never make so much noise 
when we wish to be silent.” 
‘Ves, that is true ; but let us give the proverb the lie, Porthos : let us 
ke haste, and hold our tongues.” ; 
‘You see Iam doing my best,” said Porthos, putting on his hau de 
1usses,——* Very well,” 

21-——-3 


324 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


‘“‘ This seems to be something in haste ?” 


“Tt is more than that, it is serious, Porthos.”—-— “ Oh, oh !” : 
“‘D’Artagnan has questioned you has he not ?” 
* Questioned me ?’——“‘ Yes, at Belle-Isle ?” 

“ Not the least in the world.” 

“ Are you sure of that, Porthos ?,—“ Parbleu 


“Tt is impossible.—Recollect yourself.” 

“He asked me what I was doing, and I told him ;—studying topc 
graphy. I would have made use of another word which you employe 
one day.” 

“ Of castrametation ?” 

“ Ves, that’s it ; but I never could recollect it.” 

* All the better. What more did he ask you ?” 

“Who M. Gétard was.”—-—* Next?” 

“ Who M. Jupenet was.” 

*“‘ He did not happen to see our plan of fortifications, did he ?” 

6c Yes.” 

“The devil he did!” : 

“But don’t be alarmed ; I had rubbed out your writing, with Indiz 
rubber. It was impossible for him to suppose you had given me ar 
advice in those works.” 

“Ay ; but our friend has very keen eyes.” 

What are you afraid of ?” 

“T fear that everything is discovered, Porthos ; the matter is, then, 
prevent a great misfortune. I have given orders to my people to closea 
the gates and doors. D’Artagnan will not be able to get out before day 
break. Your horse is ready saddled; you will gain the first relay ; by fiv 
o’clock in the morning, you will have gone fifteen leagues. Come 1!” 

Aramis then assisted Porthos to dress, piece by piece, with as mu 
celerity as the most skilful valet-de-chambre could have done. Porth 
half confused, half stupefied, let him do as he liked, and confounded hi 
self in excuses.. When he was ready, Aramis took him by the hand, a 
led him, making him place his foot with precaution on every step of t 
stairs, preventing him running against door-frames, turning him this w 
and that, as if Aramis had been the giant and Porthos the dwarf. S 
set fire to and elevated matter. A horse was waiting, ready saddled, 
the courtyard. Porthos mounted. Then Aramis himself took the ho 
by the bridle, and led him over some dung spread in the yard, with 
evident intention of suppressing noise. He, at the same time, pinched 
horse’s nose, to prevent him neighing. When arrived at the outward ga 
drawing Porthos towards him, who was going off without even asking h 
what for: “Now, friend Porthos, now ; without drawing bridle, till y 
get to Paris,” whispered he in his ears; “eat on horseback, drink 
horseback, sleep on horseback, but lose not a minute.” 

“ That’s enough ; I will not stop.” 

“This letter to M. Fouquet ; cost what it may, he must have it t 
morrow before mid-day.”——“ He shall have it.” 

“And do not forget one thing, my friend.” 

What is that?” 

“That you are riding after your drvevet of duc and peer.” 

“Oh! oh!” said Porthos, with his eyes sparkling ; “I. will do it i 
twenty-four hours in that case.”-—“ Try to do so.” 

“Then let go the bridle—and forward, Goliah !” 

Aramis did let go, not the bridle; but the horse’s nose; Porthos release 


PORTHOS IS SORRY HE CAME WITH D'ARTAGNAN, 328 


hand, clapped spurs to his horse, which set off ata gallop. As long as 
could distinguish Porthos through the darkness, Aramis followed him 
h his eyes ; when he was completely out of sight, he re-entered the 
‘d. Nothing had stirred in D’Artagnan’s apartment. The va/et placed 
watch at the door, had neither seen any light, nor heard any noise. 
amis closed his door carefully, sent the lackey to bed, and quickly 
ight his own. D’Artagnan really suspected nothing; therefore thought 
had gained everything, when he awoke in the morning, about half-past 
r. Heran to the window in his shirt. The window looked out upon 
‘court. Day was dawning. The court was deserted ; the fowls, even, 
1 not yet left their roosts. Notaservant appeared. All the doors were 
sed. 
‘Good! perfect calm,” said D’Artagnan to himself. “ Never mind: I 
up first in the house. Let us dress ; that will be so much done.” And 
Artagnan dressed himself. But, this time, he endeavoured not to give 
the costume of M. Agnan that dourgeozse and almost ecclesiastical 
idity he had affected before ; he managed, by drawing his belt tighter, 
buttoning his clothes in a different fashion, and by putting on his hata 
le on one side, to restore to his person a little of that military character, 
» absence of which had surprised Aramis. ‘This being done, he made 
e, or affected to make free, with his host, and entered his chamber with- 
t ceremony. Aramis was asleep, or feigned to be asleep. A large book 
ropen upon his night-desk, a wax-light was still burning above its silver 
iteau. This was more than enough to prove to D’Artagnan the inno- 
ice of the night of the prelate, and the good intentions of his waking. 
e musketeer did to the bishop precisely as the bishop had done to 
rthos—he tapped him on theshoulder. Evidently Aramis pretended to 
ep; for, instead of waking suddenly, he who slept so lightly, he re- 
ired a repetition of the summons. 
“Ah! ah! is that you?” said he, stretching his arms. “What an 
reeable surprise ! J/a foi / Sleep had made me forget I had the happi- 
ss to possess you. What o’clock is it 2” 
“JT do not know,” said D’Artagnan,a little embarrassed. “Early, I 
lieve. But, you know, that devil of a habit of waking with the day sticks 
me still.” 
‘Do you wish that we should go out so soon?’ asked Aramis, “It 
ears to me to be very early.” 
* Just as you like.” 
‘I thought we had agreed not to get on horseback before eight.” 
‘Possibly : but I had so great a wish to see you, that I said to myself, 
> sooner the better.” 
“ And my seven hours’ sleep,” said Aramis: “ take care; I had reckoned 
on them, and what I lose of them I must make up.” 
“But it seems to me that, formerly, you were less of a sleeper than that, 
ar friend ; your blood was alive, and you were never to be found in bed.” 
“ And it is exactly on account of what you tell me, that I am so fond of 
ing there now.” 
“Then you confess, that it is not for the sake of sleeping, that you have 
t me off till eight o’clock.” 
“T have been afraid you would laugh at me, if I told you the truth.” 
“ Tell me, notwithstanding.” 
“ Well, from six to eight, 1 am accustomed to perform my devotions.” 
“Your devotions ?”-—“ Yes.” 
“I did not believe a bishop’s exercises were so severe.” 


326 _-« YHE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“ A bishop, my friend, must sacrifice more to appearances than a simple 
clerk.” . 

“ Mordioux! Aramis, that is a word which reconciles me with you 
greatness. To appearances! That is a musketeers word, in good truth 
Vivent les apparences, Aramis !” . : 

“Instead of felicitating me upon it, pardon me, D’Artagnan. It is < 
very mundane word which I have allowed to escape me.” 

“Must I leave you, then ?” 

“T want time to collect my thoughts, my friend, and for my usua 

rayers.” 

“ Well, I leave you to them ; but, on account of that poor pagan, D’Ar. 
tagnan, abridge them for once, I beg: I thirst for speech of you.” 

“Well, D’Artagnan, I promise you that within an hour and a half——” 

“An hour and a half of devotions! Ah! my friend, be as reasonable 
with me as you can. Let me have the best bargain possible.” 

Aramis began to laugh. 

“Still agreeable, still young, still gay,” said he. “ You have come int) 
my diocese to set me quarrelling with grace.”—-—“ Bah !” J 

“And you know well that I was never able to resist your seductions 
you will cost me my salvation, D’Artagnan.” tt 

D’Artagnan bit his lips. ; 

“Well,” said he, “I will take the sin on my own head; favour me wit! 
one simple Christian sign of the cross, favour me with one pater, and w 
will part.” 

“Hush !” said Aramis, “we are already no longer alone ; I hear stranger} 
coming up.”———‘‘ Well, dismiss them.” 

“Impossible ; I made an appointment with them yesterday. It is th¢ 
principal of the college of the Jesuits, and the superior of the Dominicans.| 

“Your staff? Well, so be it.” 

“ What are you going to do ?” 

“I will go and wake Porthos, and remain in his company till you ha 
finished the conference.” 

Aramis did not stir, his brow remained unbent, he betrayed himself 
no gesture or word. “ Go,” said he,as D’Artagnan advanced to the doo 

“A propos, do you know where Porthos sleeps ?” 

“No, but I can inquire.” ; 

“Take the corridor, and open the second door on the left.” 

“Thank you ; az revoir /” And D’Artagnan departed in the directi 
pointed out by Aramis. 

Ten minutes had not passed away when he came back. He fou 
Aramis seated between the superior of the Dominicans and the princip 
of the college of the Jesuits, exactly in the same situation as he had fou 
him formerly in the auberge at Crévecceur. This company did not at af 
terrify the musketeer. 

“What is it?’ said Aramis, quietly. “ You have, apparently, somethin 
to say to me, my friend.” 

“It is,” replied D’Artagnan, fixing his eyes upon Aramis—“ it is tha\ 
Porthos is not in his apartment.” | 

“Indeed !” said Aramis, calmly ; “are you sure ?°——“ Pardieu ! I came 
from his chamber.” 

“Where can he be, then ?’———“ That is what I ask you.” 

“ And have not you inquired ?”—-—“ Yes, I have.” 

“ And what answer did you get ??—“ That Porthos, often going out ir 
a morning without saying anything, was probably gone out.” 


PORTHOS 18 SORRY HE CAME WITH D'ARTAGNAN. 327 


What did you do, then ??>——“I went to the stables,” replied D?Ar- 
ignan, carelessly. 
“What to do ?»——“ To see if Porthos was gone out on horseback.” 

“ And ?” interrogated the bishop.——“ Well, there is a horse missing— 
all No. 3, Goliah.” 

All this dialogue, it may be easily understood, was not exempt from a 
srtain affectation on the part of the musketeer, and a perfect complaisance 
n the part of Aramis. 

“Oh! I guess how it is,” said Aramis, after having considered for a 
1oment—“ Porthos is gone out to give us a surprise.” 

“‘ A surprise ?” 

“Ves: the canal which goes from Vannes to the sea abounds in teal 
nd snipes ; that is Porthos’s favourite sport, and he will bring us back a 
ozen for breakfast.” 

“Do you think so?” said D’Artagnan. 

“Tam sure of it. Whereelse can he be? I wouldlay a wager he took 
gun with him.” 

“ Well, that is possible,” said D’Artagnan. 

“ Do one thing, my friend : get on horseback, and join him.” 

“ You are right,” said D’Artagnan ; “ I will.” 


“ Shall I go with you ?»——“‘ No, thank you. Porthos is rather remark- 
ble ; I will inquire as I go along.” 
“ Will you take an arquebuse ?’——“ Thank you.” 


“ Order what horse you like to be saddled.” 

‘The one I rode yesterday, on coming from Belle-Isle.” 

“So be it; use the horse as your own.” 

Aramis rang, and gave orders to have the horse M. d’Artagnan had 
‘hosen saddled. 

D’Artagnan followed the servant charged with the execution of this 
yrder. When arrived at the door, the servant drew on one side to allow 
VM. d’Artagnan to pass; and at that moment he caught the eye of his 
naster. A knitting of the brow gave the intelligent spy to understand 
hat all should be given to D’Artagnan he wished. D’Artagnan got into 
he saddle, and Aramis heard the steps of his horse on the pavement. An 
nstant after, the servant returned. 

“Well?” asked the bishop. 

“ Monseigneur, he has followed the course of the canal, and is going 

wards the sea,” said the servant. 

“ Very well !” said Aramis. 

In fact, D’Artagnan, dismissing all suspicion, hastened towards tha 
ycean, constantly hoping to see in the Lavdes, or on the beach, the colossal 
profile of Porthos. He persisted in fancying he could trace a horse’s step 
in every puddle. Sometimes he imagined he heard the report of a gun. 
This illusion lasted three hours : during two of them he went forward in 
search of his friend ; in the last he returned to the house. 

“ We must have crossed,” said he, “and I shall find them waiting for 
me at table.” 

D’Artagnan was mistaken ; he no more found Porthos at the palace 
than he had found him on the sea-shore. Aramis was waiting for him at 
the top of the stairs, looking very much concerned. 

“ Did my people not find you, my dear D’Artagnan ?” cried he, as soon 
as he caught sight of the musketeer. 

“ No; did you send any one after me ?” 

“JT am deeply concerned, my friend, deeply, to have induced you to 


328 _ YHE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


take such a useless search; but, about seven o'clock, the almoner of Saint. 
Paterne came here. He had met Du Valon, who was going away, ané 
who, being unwilling to disturb anybody at the palace, had charged him 
to tell me that, fearing M. Gétard would play him some ill turn in his 
absence, he was going to take advantage of the morning tide to make a 
tour to Belle-Isle.” | 

“ But tell me, Goliah has not crossed the four leagues of sea, I should 
think ?” : 

“There are full six,” said Aramis. 

“That makes it less probable still.” 

“Therefore, my friend,” said Aramis, with one of his most bland smiles, 
“Goliah is in the stable, well pleased, I will answer for it, that Porthos is 
no longer on his back.” In fact, the horse had been brought back from 
the relay by the direction of the prelate, from whom no detail escaped. 
D’Artagnan appeared as well satisfied as possible with the explanation. 
He entered upon a part of dissimulation which agreed perfectly with the 
Suspicions that arose more and more strongly in his mind. He break- 
fasted between the Jesuit and Aramis, having the Dominican in front of 
him, and smiling particularly at the Dominican, whose jolly fat face pleased 
him much. The repast was long and sumptuous ; excellent Spanish win, 
fine Morbitran oysters, exquisite fish from the mouth of the Loire, 
enormous prawns from Paimbceuf, and delicious game from the moors 
constituted the principal part of it. D’Artagnan ate much, and drank bu 
little. Aramis drank nothing, unless it was water. After the repast,— 

“You offered me an arquebuse,” said D’Artagnan. 

mol ic”? “Lend it me, then.” 

“Are you going shooting ?” 

“Whilst waiting for Porthos, it is the best thing I can do, I think.” 

“Take which you like from the trophy.” 

“Will you not come with me ?” 

“I would with great pleasure ; but,-alas ! my friend, sporting ¢s forhidde 
to bishops.” 

“Ah ! said D’Artagnan, “I did not know that.” 

“ Besides,” continued Aramis, “I shall be busy till mid-day.” 

“Ts all goalone, then?” said D’Artagnan. 

“I am sorry to say you must ; but come back to dinner.” 

“—ardieu | the eating at your house is too good to make me think of n 
comin, back.” And thereupon D’Artagnan quitted his host, bowed to tl 
guests, and took his arquebuse ; but, instead of shooting, went straight 
the little port of Vannes. He looked in vain to observe if anybody sa 
him; he could discern neither thing nor person, He engaged a little fish 
ing-boat for twenty-five livres, and set off at half-past eleven, convince 
that he had not been followed ; and that was true, he had not been followed 
only a Jesuit brother, placed in the top of the steeple of his church, ha 
not, since the morning, by the help of an excellent glass, lost sight of on 
of his steps. At threc-quarters past eleven, Aramis was informed tha 
D’Artagnan was sailing towards Belle-Isle. The voyage was rapid ; 
good nox -north-east wind drove him towards the isle. Ac he approached | 
his eyes were constantly fixed upo: the coast. He looked to see if, upori, 
the shore or upon the fortifications, the brilliant dress and vast stature of! 
Porthos should stand out against a slightly clouded sky ; but his search 
was in vain. He landed without having seen anything ; and learnt from 
the first soldier interrogated by him, that M. du Valon was not yet returned 
from Vannes. Then, without losing an instant, D’Artagnan ordered his 


i 


PORTHOS 1S SORRY HE CAME WITH D'ARTAGNAN. 329 


tle barque to put its head towards Sarzeau. We know that the wind 
anges with the different hours of the day. The wind had gone round 
m the north-north-east to the south-east ; the wind, then, was almost as 
od for the return to Sarzeau, as it had been for the voyage to Belle-Isle. 
_ three hours D’Artagnan had touched the continent ; two hours more 
fficed for his ride to Vannes. In spite of the rapidity of his passage, 
iat D’Artagnan endured of impatience and anger during that short pas- 
ge, the deck alone of the vessel, upon which he stamped backwards and 
‘wards for three hours, could relate to history. He made but one bound 
mm the quay whereon he landed, to the episcopal palace. He thought to 
‘tify Aramis by the promptitude of his return ; he wished to reproach 
n with his duplicity, and yet with reserve ; but with sufficient spirit, 
vertheless, to make him feel all the consequences of it, and force from 
n a part of his secret. He hoped, in short—thanks to that heat of ex- 
2ssion which is to mysteries what the charge with the bayonet is to 
loubts—to bring the mysterious Aramis to some manifestation or other. 
* he found in the vestibule of the palace, the valet de chambre, who 
sed the passage, while smiling upon him with a stupid air. 
Monseigneur >” cried D’Artagnan, endeavouring to put him aside with 
‘hand. Moved for an instant, the valet resumed his station. 

‘ Monseigneur ?” said he. “Yes, to be sure ; do you not know me ‘ 


bécile ,” 

‘Yes ; you are the Chevalier d’Artagnan.”-—“ Then let me pass.” 
S35 Y § p 

eltis of no use,”=——“* Why of no use ?” 


‘Because His Greatness is not at home.”—— What ! His Greatness 
10t at home? where is he then ?’———“ Gone.” 


* Gone ??»—-—“ Yes.” 
‘Whither ?»——“I_ don’t know; but, perhaps he tells monsieur le 
svalier.” 


‘And how? where? in what fashion 2” 

‘In this letter which he gave me for monsieur le chevalier.” And the 
et de chambre drew a letter from his pocket. 

‘Give it me, then, you rascal,” said D’Artagnan, snatching it from his 
id. “Oh, yes,” continued he, at the first line, “yes, I understand ;” 
lhe read :— 

‘DEAR FRIEND,-~An affair of he ost urgent nature calls me to a dis- 
t parish of my diocese. I hoped to see you again before I set out ; but 
se that hope in thinking that you are going, no doubt, to remain two or 
ce days at Belle-Isle, with our dear Porthos. Amuse yourself as well 
you can ; but do not attempt to hold out against him at table. This is 
ounsel I might have given even to Athos, in his most brilliant and best 
s. Adieu, dear friend ; believe that I regret greatly not having better 
| for a longer time, profited by your excellent company.” 

Mordioux!” cried D’Artagnan. “I am tricked. Ah! blockhead, brute, 
le fool that Iam! But let them laugh who laugh last. Oh, duped, 
ed, like a monkey cheated with an empty nutshell!’ And with a 
rty blow bestowed upon the nose of the still grinning valet-de-chambre, 
made all haste out of the episcopal palace. F uret, however good a 
fer. was not equal to present circumstances. D’Artagnan, therefore, 
’ post, and chose a horse, which he made to understand, with good 
rs and a light hand, that stags are not the most agile creatures in 
ire. 


vw 


330 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


CHAPTER LXXIV. 


IN WHICH D’ARTAGNAN MAKES ALL SPEED, PORTHOS SNORES, AND 
ARAMIS COUNSELS. 


FRoM thirty to thirty-five hours after the events we have just related, as} 
Fouquet, according to his custom, having interdicted his door, was wor. 
ing in the cabinet of his house at Saint Mandé, with which we are alreac 
acquainted, a carriage drawn by four horses streaming with sweat, entere 
the court at full gallop. This carriage was, probably, expected ; for thr 
or four lackeys hastened to the door, which they opened. Whilst M. Fo 
quet rose from his bureau and ran to the window, a man got painfully o: 
of the carriage, descending with difficulty the three steps of the doc 
leaning upon the shoulders of his lackeys. He had scarcely uttered h 
name, when the va/e/, upon whom he was not leaning, sprang up the Mee 
and disappeared in the vestibule. This man went to inform his maste 
but he had no occasion to knock at the door: Fouquet was standing 
the threshold. Ss 

“‘ Monseigneur, the bishop of Vannes,” said he. al 

“Very well,” replied his master. ef 

Then, leaning over the banister of the staircase, of which Aramis we 
beginning to ascend the first steps,— ‘ 

“You, dear friend !” said he, “‘ you, so soon !” 

“Yes ; I, myself, monsieur! but bruised, battered, as you see.” | 

“Oh! my poor dear friend,” said Fouquet, presenting him his arr 
upon which Aramis leant, whilst the servants drew back with respect. _ 

“Bah!” replied Aramis, “it is nothing, since I am here. The princip 
thing was that I should get here, and here I am.” 

“Speak quickly,” said Fouquet, closing the door of the cabinet behi 
Aramis and himself. 

“ Are we alone ?»-—“Yes, perfectly.” 

““ No one can listen to us >—no one can hear us 2” 

“ Be satisfied ; nobody.” 

Ts M. du Valon arrived ?”?——“ Yes.” 

** And you have received my letter ?” 

“Yes. The affair is serious, apparently, since it necessitates y 
presence in Paris, at a moment when your presence was so urgent e 
where.” 

“You are right ; it cannot be more serious.” 

“Thank you! thank you! What is it about? But, for God’s sa 
before anything else, take time to breathe, dear friend. You are so pal 
you frighten me.” 

“T am really in great pain. But, for Heaven’s sake, think nothi 
about me. Did M. du Valon tell you nothing, when he delivered the lett 
to you ?” 

“No; I heard a great noise ; I went to the window; I saw at the f 
of the Zervvou a sort of horseman of marble; I went down, he held t 
letter out to me, and his horse fell down dead.” 

“But he P” 

“ He fell with the horse ; he was lifted up, and carried to an apartmei 
Having read the letter, I went up to him, in hopes of obtaining more amp’ 
information ; but he was asleep, and, after such a fashion, that it was in 
possible to wake him. I took pity on him; I gave orders that his boot 
should be taken off, and that he should be left quite ‘undisturbed.” 


| 


DARTACNAN, PORTHOS, AND ARAMIS. 23% 


& So far well; now, this is the question in hand, monseigneur. You 

ve seen M. d’Artagnan in Paris, have you not ee 

“ Certes, and think him a man of intelligence, and even a man of heart ; 

though he did bring about the death of our dear friends, Lyodot and 

’*Eymeris.” 

“ Alas! yes, I heard of that. At Tours, I met the courier, who was 
‘inging me the letter from Gourville, and the despatches from Pellisson. 
ave you seriously reflected on that event, monsieur ?»——“ Yes.” 

“ And in it you perceived a direct attack upon your sovereignty 2” 

“ And do you believe it to be so?” 

“ Oh, yes, I think so.” 

“Well, I must confess, that sad idea occurred to me likewise.” 

“Do not blind yourself, monsicur, in the name of Heaven! Listen 
ttentively to me.—I return to D’Artagnan.” 

“TJ am all attention.” 

“ Under what circumstances did you see him ?” 

“ He came here for money.” 

“ With what kind of order !”——“ With an order from the king.” 

“ Direct 2?“ Signed by his majesty.” 

“There, then! Well, D’Artagnan has been to Belle-Isle ; he was 
isguised ; he came in the character of some sort of an zz¢endant, charged 
y his master to purchase salt-mines. Now, D’Artagnan has no other 
jaster but the king ; he came, then, sent by the king. He saw Porthos.” 

‘Who is Porthos?” 

“T beg your pardon, I ‘made a mistake. He saw M. du Valon at 
3elle-Isle ; and he knows, as well as you and I do, that Belle-Isle is 
ortified.” 

“ And you think that the king sent him there ?” said Fouquet, pensively. 

“JT certainly do.” 

“ And D’Artagnan, in the hands of the king, is a dangerous instrument ?” 

“The most dangerous imaginable.” 

«Then I formed a correct opinion of him at the first glance.” 

“ How so ?>—“ I wished to attach him to myself.” 

“If you judged him to be the bravest, the most acute, and the most 
droit man in France, you have judged correctly.” 

“ He must be had then, at any price.” 

“ TD’Artagnan ?” 

“Ts not that your opinion ?” 

“It may be my opinion, but you will never have him.”——“ Why ?” 

“ Because we have allowed the time to go by. He was dissatisfied with 
he court, we should have profited by that ; since that, he has passed into 

England ; there he powerfully assisted in the restoration, there he gained 
2 fortune, and, after all, he returned to the service of the king. Well, if he 
has returned to the service of the king, it is because he has been well vaid 
in that service.” 

“We will pay him still better, that is all.” 
~ “Oh! monsieur, excuse me ; D’Artagnan has a high sense of his word, 
and where that word is once engaged, that word remains where it is.” 

“ What do you conclude, then ?” said Fouquet, with great inquietude. 

« At present, the principal thing is to parry a dangerous blow.” 

“ And how is it to be parried ?” * Listen.” 

“ But D’Artagnan will come and render an account to the king of his 
mission.” 

“ Oh, we have time enough to think about that.” 


-332 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“How so? You are much in advance of him, I presume 

“Nearly ten hours.” 

“Well, in ten hours——” 

Aramis shook his pale head. “Look at these clouds which flit acro 
the heavens ; at these swallows which cut the air. D’Artagnan moy ; 
more quickly than the clouds or the birds ; D’Artagnan is the wind whic: 
carries them.” i 

“ A strange man !” f 

‘T tell you, he is something superhuman, monsieur. He is of my age 
and I have known him these five-and-thirty years.” ! 

“Well ?”——“Well, listen to my calculation, monsieur. I sent M. dt 
Valon off to you at two hours after midnight. M. du Valon was eigh’ 
hours in advance of me; when did M. du Valon arrive ”” f 

“About four hours ago.” 

“You see, then, that I gained four upon him; and yet Porthos is 
staunch horseman, and he has left on the road eight dead horses, whos | 
bodies I came to successively. I rode post fifty leagues ; but I have the 
gout, the gravel, and what else I know not; so that fatigue kills me. I 
was obliged to dismount at Tours ; since that, rolling along in a carriag 
half-dead, sometimes overturned, often drawn upon the sides, and some: 
times on the back of the carriage, always with four spirited horses at full 
galop, I have arrived—arrived, gaining four hours upon Porthos ; but, see 
you, D’Artagnan does not weigh three hundred-weight, as Porthos does 
D’Artagnan has not.the gout and gravel, as I have; he is not a horseman 
he isa centaur. D’Artagnan, see you, set out for Belle-Isle when I sef 
out for Paris ; and D’Artagnan, notwithstanding my ten hours’ advance, 
D’Artagnan will arrive within two hours after me.” 

“ But, then, accidents ?»——“ He never meets with any accidents.” 

“Horses may fail him.”—“ He will run as fast as a horse.” 

“Good God! what a man !” 

“Yes, he is aman whom I love and admire. I love him because he is 
good, great, and loyal; I admire him because he represents with me the 
culminating point of human powers ; but, whilst loving and admiring him) 
I fear him, and am on my guard against him. Now then, I resume, mon; 
sieur ; in two hours D’Artagnan will be here ; be beforehand with him) 
Go to the Louvre, and see the king before he sees D’Artagnan.,” 

“What shall I say to the king ?” 

“‘ Nothing ; give him Belle-Isle.” 

“Oh! Monsieur d’Herblay! Monsieur d@Herblay,” cried F ouque 
“what projects crushed all at once !” 

“After one project that has failed, there is always another project which 
may lead to good; we should never despair. Go, monsieur, and go 
! 


quickly.” | 

“ But that garrison, so carefully chosen, the king will change it directly.” 

“That garrison, monsieur, was the king’s when it entered Belle-Isle ; at 
is yours now ; it will be the same with all garrisons after a fortnight’s* 
occupation. Let things go on, monsieur. Do you see any inconvenience) 
in having an army at the end of a year, instead of two regiments? Do) 
you not see that your garrison of to-day will make you partisans at La 
Rochelle, Nantes, Bordeaux, Toulouse—in short, wherever they may be 
sent to? Go to the king, monsieur; go; time flies, and D’Artagnan, 
while we are losing time, is flying like an arrow along the high-road.” 

“Monsieur d’Herblay, you know that each word from you is a germ 
which fructifies in my thoughts. I will go to the Louvre.” 


yoann 


DARTAGNAN, PORTHOS, AND ARAMIS. 333 


“Instantly, will you not ?” 
“T only ask time to change my dress.” 
“Remember that D’Artagnan has no need to pass through St. Mandé, 
't will go straight to the Louvre ; that is cutting off an hour from the 
vance which remains to us.” 
“D’Artagnan may have everything except my English horses. I shall 
-at the Louvre in twenty-five minutes.” And, without losing a second, 
>uquet gave orders for his departure. 
Aramis had only time to say to him, “ Return as quickly as you go ; for 
shall await you impatiently.” 
Five minutes after, the surintendant was flying along the road to Paris. 
uring this time, Aramis desired to be shown the chamber in which 
orthos was sleeping. At the door of Fouquet’s cabinet he was folded in 
‘e arms of Pellisson, who had just heard of his arrival, and had left his 
fice to see him. Aramis received with that friendly dignity which he 
new so well how to assume, those caresses as respectful as earnest : but, 
‘ll a once, stopping on the landing-place, “ What is that I hear up 
onder ?” 
' There was, in fact, a hoarse growling kind of noise, like the roar of a 
lungry tiger, or an impatient lion. “ Oh, that is nothing,” said Pellisson, 
miling. 
“Well; but % 
“Jt is M. du Valon snoring.” 
ee An | true,” said Aramis ; “I had forgotten. No one but he is capable 
3 making such a noise. Allow me, Pellisson, to inquire if he wants any- 
hing.” 

“ And you will permit me to accompany you ia 

“ Oh, certainly ;” and both entered the chamber. Porthos was stretched 
ipon the bed ; his face was violet rather than red ; his eyes were swelled ; 
iis mouth was wide open. The roaring which escaped from the deep 
kavities of his chest made the glass of the windows vibrate. ‘To those 
Neveloped and clearly defined muscles starting from his face, to his hair 
in -tted with sweat, to the energetic heaving of his chin and shoulders, it 
re impossible to refuse a certain degree of admiration. Strength carried 


this point is almost divinity. The Herculean legs and feet of Porthos 
jad, by swelling, burst his leather boots ; all the strength of his enormous 
Hlody was converted into the rigidity of stone. Porthos moved no more 
han does the giant of granite which reclines upon the plains of Agrigen- 
fam. According to Pellisson’s orders, his boots had been cut off, for no 
uman power could have pulled them off. Four lackeys had tried in vain, 
ulling at them as they would have pulled capstans ; and yet all this did 
not awaken him. They had taken off his boots in fragments, and his legs 
thad fallen back upon the bed. They then cut off the rest of his clothes, 
carried him to a bath, in which they let him lie a considerable time. They 
{then put on him clean linen, and placed him ina well-warmed bed—the 
lwhole with efforts and pains which might have roused a dead man, but 
which did not make Porthos open an eye, OF interrupt for a second the 
formidable organ of his snoring. Aramis wished, on his part, with a dry, 
‘nervous nature, armed with extraordinary courage, to outbrave fatigue, and 
employ himself with Gourville and Pellisson, but he fainted in the chair in 
‘which he had persisted to remain. He was carried into the adjoining 
room, where the repose of bed soon calmed his throbbing brain. 


334 | | PRE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


CHAPTER £AXY, 
IN WHICH MONSIEUR FOUQUET ACTS. 


IN the meantime Fouquet was hastening to the Louvre, at the best spe¢ 
of his English horses. The king was at work with Colbert. All at on 
the king became thoughtful. The two sentences of death he had signe 
on mounting his throne sometimes recurred to his memory : they we 
two black spots which he saw with his eyes open; two spots of bloc 
which he saw when his eyes were closed. “ Monsieur,” said he, rath 
sharply, to the intendant, “it sometimes seems to me that those two me 
you made me condemn were not very great culprits.” 

“Sire, they were picked out from the herd of the farmers of the finance 
which wanted decimating.” 

“Picked out by whom 2” 

“ By necessity, sire,” replied Colbert, coldly. 

“ Necessity !—a great word,” murmured the young king. 

“A great goddess, sire.” : 

“They were devoted friends of the surintendant, were they not ?” 

“Yes, sire; friends who would have given their lives to Monsiev 
Fouquet.” ‘ 

“They have given them, monsieur,” said the king. 

“That is true ;—but uselessly, by good luck,—which was not their ir 
tention.” 

“How much money had these men fraudulently obtained ” 

“Ten millions, perhaps ; of which six have been confiscated.” 

“And is that money in my coffers ?” said the king with a certain air c 
repugnance.” 

“It is there, sire ; but this confiscation, whilst threatening M. F ouque 
has not touched him.” 

“You conclude, then, M. Colbert x 

“That if M. Fouquet has raised against your majesty a troop of factio 
rioters to extricate his friends from punishment, he will raise an army whe 
he shall have to extricate himself from punishment.” 

The king darted at his confidant one of those looks which resemble t 
red fire of a stormy flash of lightning, one of those looks which illu 
nate the darkness of the deepest consciences. “I am astonished,” said ] 
“that, thinking such things of M. F ouquet, you did not come to give 1 
your counsels thereupon.” 

“Counsels upon what, sire ?” 

“Tell me, in the first place, clearly and precisely, what you think, 
Colbert.” 

“Upon what subject, sire »” . 

“Upon the conduct of M. Fouquet.” 

“I think, sire, that M. F ouquet, not satisfied with attracting all th 


the friends of easy life and pleasures,—of what idlers call poetry, an 
politicians corruption. I think that, by holding the subjects of your 
majesty in pay, he trespasses upon the royal prerogative, and cannot, if 
this continues so, be long in placing your majesty among the weak and 
obscure.” 

“How would you qualify all these projects, M, Colbert ?” 

“The projects of M. Fouquet, sire ?” 


M. FOUQUET ACTS. 335 


Ves,” _—“‘ They are called crimes of /ése mazesté.” 

And what is done to criminals guilty of (se majesté?” 

“ They are arrested, tried, and punished.” 

“Vou are quite sure that M. Fouquet has conceived the idea of the 
ime you impute to him ?” 

“1 can say more, sire; there is even a commencement of the execu- 
“of it.” . 
mVell, then, I return to that which I was saying, M. Colbert.” 

“And you were saying, sire ?” 
Nn Give me counsel.” 
* Pardon me, sire ; but, in the first place, I have something to add.” 

¢ Say—what ?” 

“ An evident, palpable, material proof of treason.” 

* And what is that ?” 

“T have just learnt that M. Fouquet is fortifying Belle-Isle.” 

“ Ah, indeed !” 

“Yes, sire.” 

* Are you sure ?” 
é sate Do you know, sire what soldiers there are at Belle- 
} e pe 

“No, ma fot! Do you?” 

“T am ignorant likewise, sire; I should therefore propose to your 
ajesty to send somebody to Belle-Isle,” 

Who P” “ Me, for instance.” 

“ And what would you do at Belle-Isle ?” 

“Inform myself whether, after the example of the ancient feudal lords, 
[. Fouquet was embattlementing his walls.” 

“ And with what purpose could he do that ?” 
“With the purpose of defending himself some day against his king.” 
“But if it be thus, M. Colbert,” said Louis, ‘“‘ we must immediately do as 
ju say ; M. Fouquet must be arrested.” 

“ That is impossible.” . 
-“T thought I had already told you, monsieur, that I suppressed that word 
| my service.” 
\“ The service of your majesty cannot prevent M. Fouquet from being 
trintendant-général.” 
i“ Well ?»——“ That, in consequence of holding that post, he has for him 
f the parliament, as he has all the army by his largesses, all literature by 
s favours, and all the zod/esse by his presents.” 

'“ That is to say, then, that I can do nothing against M. Fouquet ?” 

* Absolutely nothing,—at least at present, sire.” 

“ You are a sterile counsellor, M. Colbert.” 

“Oh no, sire, jor I will not confine myself to pointing out the peril to 
our majesty.” 
“Come, then, where shall we begin to undermine the Colossus? let us 
e ;” and his majesty began to laugh with bitterness. 
“Hehas grown great by money : kill him by money, sire.” 
(“Tf I were to deprive him of his charge ?’-—-“ A bad means, sire.” 
“The good—the good, then ?»——“ Ruin him, sire, that is the way.” 

“ But how ?” P 

“ Occasions will not be wanting ; take advantage of all occasions.” 

“ Point them out to me.” ~ 

“ Here is one at once. His royal highness Monsieur is about to. be 
qarried, his nuptials must be magnificent. That is a good occasion fo 


336 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


your majesty to demand a million of M. Fouquet. M. Fouquet, w. 
pays twenty thousand livres down when he need not pay more th 
five thousand, will easily find that million when your majesty shall dema 
1? 
“That is all very well ; I will demand it,” said Louis. : 
“If your majesty will sign the ovdonnance, I will have the money tak 
myself.” And Colbert pushed a paper before the king, and present, 
pen to him. 3 rwe 
At that moment the usher opened the door and announced Monsip]o, 
surintendant. Louis turned pale. Colbert let the pen fall, and drewyth 
from the king, over whom he extended his black wings of a bad ang 
The surintendant made his entrance like a man of the court, to whom 
single glance was sufficient to make him appreciate his situation. Th 
Situation was not very encouraging for Fouquet, whatever might be tl 
consciousness of his strength. The small black eye of Colbert, dilated] 
envy, and the limpid eye of Louis XIV., inflamed by anger, signalled 
pressing danger. Courtiers are, with regard to court rumours, like o 
soldiers, who distinguish through blasts of wind and moaning of leav 
the sound of the distant steps of an armed troop. They can, after havir 
listened, tell pretty nearly how many men are marching, how many art; 
resound, how many cannons roll. Fouquet had then only to interroga 
the silence which his arrival had produced ; he found it big with menacir 
revelations. The king allowed him quite time enough to advance as f, 
as the middle of the chamber. His adolescent modesty commanded tk 
forbearance of the moment. F ouquet boldly seized the opportunity. 
“Sire,” said he, “I was impatient to see your majesty.” } 
“ What for,” asked Louis. 
“To announce some good news to you.” 
Colbert, the grandeur of person, less largeness of heart, resembl 
Fouquet in many points. The same penetration, the same knowledge, 
men. Moreover, that great power of contraction, which gives to hyp 
crites time to reflect, and gather themselves up to take a spring. . 
guessed that Fouquet was going to meet the blow he was about to de 
him. His eyes sparkled. } 


ie What news?” asked the king. Fouquet placed a roll of papers on t. 
table. ! 
“Let your majesty have the goodness to cast your eyes over this Wo]; 
said he. The king slowly unfolded the paper. | 
“Plans ?” said he "iY eS, “Sire.” 
“ And what are these plans 2” “ A new fortification, sire.” | 
“Ah, ah !” said the king, “ you amuse yourself with tactics and stra‘ 
gies then, M. Fouquet ?” HY 
“ T occupy myself with everything that may be usetul to the reign | 
your majesty,” replied Fouquet. | 
“ Beautiful descriptions !” said the king, looking at the design. 
“Your majesty comprehends, without doubt,” said F ouquet, bendi, 


over the paper ; “here is the circle of the walls, here are the forts, the’ 
the advanced works.” 


“And what do I see here, monsieur ?»———“ The sea,” 

“The sea all round ?»—_“ Yes, sire.” 

“And what is then this place of which you show me the plan >” | 

poitentcge Belle-Isle-en-Mer,” replied Fouquet with simplicity. 

At this word, at this name, Colbert made so marked a movement, th 
the king turned round to enforce the necessity for reserve. Fouquet di 


Mt. FOUQUET ACTS. 


Ot appear to be the least in the world concerned by th 

-olbert, or the king’s signal. 

* Monsieur,” continued Louis, “you have then fortified Belle 
“Yes, sire; and I have brought the plan and the accounts t 

*sty,” replied Fouquet ; “I have expended sixteen hundre 

Vres in this operation.” 

“What to do?” replied Louis coldly, having taken the initié 
malicious look of the intendant, 

“For an aim very easy to seize,” replied Fouquet. 

1 cool terms with Great Britain.” 

“Yes ; but since the restoration of King Charles II. I have fo, 

liance with him.” 

“A month since, sire, your majesty has truly said ; but it is mo 

«months since the fortifications of Belle-Isle have been begun.” 

“Then they have become useless.” 

“Sire, fortifications are never useless. I fortified Belle-Isle 
M. Monk and Lambert, and all those Lon 

‘soldiers. Belle-Isle will be ready fortifie 

10m either England or your majesty cannot fail to make war.” 

phe king was again silent, and looked under at Colbert,“ Belie-I: 
leve,” added Louis, “ is yours, M. Fouquet ??——“ No sire.” 

“Whose then ?” “ Your majesty’s.” 

Colbert was seized with as much terror as if a gulf had opened bene 

feet. Louis started with admiration, either at the genius or the devo 

a of Fouquet. 

“Explain yourself, monsieur,” said he. 


“Nothing more easy, sire 3 Belle-Isle is one of my estates ; I have for- 
2d it at my own expense. But as nothing in the world can oppose a 
yect making an humble present to his king, I offer your majesty the 
prietorship of the estate, of which you will leave me the usufruct, 
le-Isle, as a place of war, ought to be occupied by the king. “ Your 
iesty will be able, henceforth, to keep a safe garrison there.” 

-olbert felt almost sinking down upon the floor. To keep himself from 
ng, he was obliged to hold by the columns of the wainscoting, 

This is a piece of great skill in the art of war that you have exhibited 
&, monsieur,” said Louis. 
Sire, the initiative did not come from me,” replied Fouquet ; 
‘ers have inspired me with it. The plans themsely 
pne of the most distinguished engineers,” 

His name ??——“ M. du Valon.” 

M. du Valon ?” resumed Louis, “I do not know him. It is much to 
amented, M. Colbert,” continued he, “that I do not know the names 
ne men of talent who do honour to my reign.” And while saying 
'e words he turned towards Colbert. The latter felt himself crushed, 
sweat flowed from his brow, no word presented itself to his lips, he 
red an inexpressible martyrdom. “You will recollect that name,” 
ed Louis XIV. 


| 


plbert bowed, but was paler than his ruffles of Flemish lace. F ouquet 
ued; 


Che masonries are of Roman mastic, the architects have com 
le after the best accounts of antiquity.” 
{nd the cannons ?” asked Louis, 


Oh! sire, that concerns your majesty ; it did not become me ¢o place 
on in my own house, unless your majesty had told me it was yours,” 


22 


“ Your ma 


5 


c 


don citizens who were Pp 
d against the Dutch, a 


“many 
es have been made 


posed it 


* VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


to float, undetermined between the hatred which this. sd 
: inspired him with, and the pity he felt for that other man, 
n, who seemed to him the counterfeit of the former. But 
sness of his kingly duty prevailed over the feelings of the 


> stretched out his finger to the paper. 
have cost you a great deal of money to Carty these plans into 


said he. 
/e I had the honour of telling your majesty the amount re 
kt it, if you please, I have forgotten ne 


bn hundred thousand livres.” 
en hundred thousand livres? you are enormously rich, mon- 


F your majesty who is rich, since Belle-Isle is yours.” 
} thank you; but however rich I may be, M. Fouquet——” The 


pped—* Well, sire ?” asked the surintendant. 
7 


5- morrow, for example.” 
Fill your majesty do me the honour to explain yourself?” 


y brother is going to marry the Princess of England.” 
RV cll ?—sire.” 
MP Well, I ought to give the young princess a reception worthy of th 
Anddaughter of Henry IV.” 
“That is but just, sire.” 
“ Then I shall want money.”—-—“ No doubt.” 
“J shall want——.” Louis hesitated. The sum he was going to dema 
was the same that he had’ been obliged to refuse Charles II]. He turne 
towards Colbert, that he might give the blow. 
“T shall want, to-morrow,” repeated he, looking at Colbert. 
“A million,” said the latter, bluntly, delighted to take his reveng' 
Fouquet turned his back upon the intendant to listen to the king. 
did not at all turn round, but waited till the king repeated, or rather m 


mured, “ A million.” 
“Oh, sire,” replied Fouquet disdainfully, “a million! What will yo 


majesty do witha million ?” 
“Tt appears to me, nevertheless——” said Louis XIV. 
“ That is not more than is svent at the nuptials of one of the most pe 


princes of Germany.” 


‘“‘ Monsieur !” 
“Your majesty must have two millions at least. The horses alo 


would run away with five hundred thousand livres. I shall have t! 
honour of sending your majesty sixteen hundred thousand livres t 


evening.” 
“ How !” said the king, “sixteen hundred thousand livres ?” 
“Took, sire,” replied Fouquet, without even turning towards Colbe 
“T know that that wants four hundred thousand livres of the two millio 
But this monsieur of 7ztendance” (pointing over his shoulder to Colbe 
who, if possible, became paler, behind him) “has in his coffers ni 
hundred thousand livres of mine.” 
The king turned round to look at Colbert. 
“ But——” said the latter. 
_ “Monsieur,” continued Fouquet, still speaking indirectly to Colbey 
“ monsieur has received, a week ago, sixteen hundred thousand livres ; 


has paid a hundred thousand livres to the guards, sixty-four thousand livr} 


th. FOUOUET ACTS, 339 


to the hospitals, twenty-five thousand to the Swiss, a hundred and thirty 

thousand to provisions, a thousand for arms, ten thousand for incidental 

expenses. I do not err, then, in reckoning upon nine hundred thousand 

livres that are left.” Then turning towards Colbert, like a disdainful head 

of office towards his inferior, “Take care, monsieur,” said he, “ that those 
Eee hundred thousand livres be remitted to his majesty this evening, in 
old.’ 

“ But,” said the king, “that will make two millions five hundred thousand 
ivres,” 

“« Sire, the five hundred thousand livres over may serve as pocket money 
or his royal highness. You understand, Monsieur Colbert, this evening, 
efore eight o’clock.” 

And with these words, bowing respectfully to the king, the surintendant 

ade his exit backwards, without honouring with a single look the envious 
nan whose head he had just half-shaved. 

4 Colbert tore his ruffles to pieces in his rage, and bit his lips till they 
led. 

Fouquet had not passed the door of the cabinet, when an usher, pushing 
y him, exclaimed, “A courier from Bretagne for his majesty.” ; 

“MM. d’Herblay was right,” murmured Fouquet, pulling out his watch ; 

‘an hour and fifty-five minutes. It was quite true.” 


ed 


CHAPTER LXXVI. 


N WHICH D’ARTAGNAN FINISHES BY AT LENGTH PLACING HIS HAND 
= UPON HIS CAPTAIN’S COMMISSION. : 
HE reader guesses beforehand whom the usher announced in announcing 
e messenger from Bretagne. This messenger was easily recognised. It 
as D’Artagnan, his clothes dusty, his face inflamed, his hair dripping 
ith sweat, his legs stiff; he lifted his feet painfully the height of each 
tep, upon which resounded the ring of his bloody spurs. He perceived, 

the doorway he was passing through, the surintendant coming out. 
ouquet bowed with a smile to him who, an hour before, was bringing him 
in and death. D’Artagnan found in his goodness of heart, and in his 
exhaustible vigour of body, enough presence of mind to remember the 
nd reception of this man ; he bowed then, also, much more from bene- 
lence and compassion than from respect. He felt upon his lips the 
ord which had so many times been repeated to the Duc de Guise— 
Fly !” But to pronounce that word would have been to betray his 
ause ; to speak that word in the cabinet of the king, and before an usher, 
ould have been to ruin himself gratuitously, and could save nobody. 
’Artagnan, then, contented himself with bowing to Fouquet, and entered. 
t this moment the king floated between the joy the last words of Fouquet 
ad given him, and his pleasure at the return of D’Artagnan. Without 
eing a courtier, D’Artagnan had a glance as sure and as rapid as if he had 
een one. He ™ad, on his entrance, devouring humiliation on the coun- 
nance of Colbert. He even heard the king say these words to him: | 
“Ah, Monsieur Colbert, you have, then, nine hundred _ thousand livres 
t the zztendance 2” Colbert, suffocated, bowed, but made no reply. All 
this scene entered into the mind of D’Artagnan, by the eyes and ears, at 
once. The first word of Louis to his musketeer, as if he wished it to be 
in opposition to what he was saying at the moment, was a kind “ Good- 
day ;” his second was to send away Colbert. The latter left the king’s 
22—2 


ies 
540 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


> 
cabinet livid and tottering, whilst D’Artagnan twisted up the ends of his 
moustache. 

“‘T love to see one of my servants in this disorder,” said the king, ad- 
miring the martial stains upon the clothes of his envoy. __ 

“TI thought, sire, my presence at the Louvre was sufficiently urgent to 
excuse my presenting myself thus before you.” 

‘“You bring me great news, then, monsieur ?” 

“Sire, the thing is this, in two words: Belle-Isle is fortified, admirably 
fortified ; Belle-Isle has a double excezn~e, a citadel, two detached forts ; 
its ports contain three corsairs, and the side-batteries only wait for theiy 
cannon.” 
e« “T know all that, monsieur,” replied the king. 
* “What ! your majesty knows all that ?” replied the musketeer, stupefied 

“T have the plan of the fortifications of Belle-Isle,” said the king. 

“Your majesty has the plan ?”»—-—“ Here it is.” 

“It is really it, sire ; and I saw a similar one on the spot.” 

The brow of D’Artagnan became clouded. “Ah! I understand all. 
Your majesty has not trusted to me alone, but has sent some other person,” 
said he, in a reproachful tone. 3 

“Of what importance is the manner, monsieur, in which I have learn 
what I know, so that I do know it ?” 

“Sire, sire,” said the musketeer, without seeking even to conceal his dis 
satisfaction ; “but I must be permitted to say to your majesty, that it i 
not worth while to make me use such speed, to risk twenty times th 
breaking of my neck, to salute me on my arrival with such intelligence 
Sire, when people are not trusted, or are deemed insufficient, they should 
not be employed.” And D’Artagnan, with a movement perfectly militgg 
stamped with his foot, and left upon the floor dust stained with blood 
The king looked at him, inwardly enjoying his first triumph. 

“ Monsieur,” said he, at the expiration of a minute, “not only is Belld 
Isle known to me, but, still further, Belle-Isle is mine.” 

“That is well! that is well, sire, 1 ask no more,” replied D’Artagnaj 
- “My discharge.” 

“What! your discharge ?” 

“ Without doubt. I am too proud to eat the bread of the king witho 
gaining it, or rather by gaining it badly.—My discharge, sire ” 

‘Oh, oh !”——“T ask for my discharge, or I shall take it.” 

“You are angry, monsieur?” 

“I have reason—mordioux ! 1 am thirty-two hours in the saddle, I rid 
night and day, I perform prodigies of speed, I arrive stiff as the corpse 
a man who has been hung-—and another arrives before me! Come, sirt 
I ama fool!—My discharge, sire !” 

“Monsieur D’Artagnan,” said Louis, leaning his white hand upon t 
dusty arm of the musketeer, “what I tell you will not at all affect th/ 
which I promised you. A word given, a word should be kept.” And t 
king, going straight to his table, opened a drawer and took out a foldd 
paper. “Here is your commission of captain of musketeers ; you ha 
won it, Monsieur D’Artagnan.” 

D’Artagnan opened the paper eagerly, and looked at it twice. He cou 
scarcely believe his eyes. 

“And this commission is given you,” continued the king, “not only o 
account of your journey to Belle-Isle, but, moreover, for your brave inter} 
vention St the Place de Gréve. There, likewise, you served me valiantly. } 
So ah Paid D’Artagnan, without his self-command being able t@f 


DARTAGNAN RECEIVES HiS CAPTAIN’S COMMISSION. 34% 


prevent a certain redness mounting to his eyes—“ you know that also, 
sie?” 

* Yes, I know it.” 

The king possessed a piercing glance, and an infallible judgment, when 
it was his object to read a conscience. ‘‘ You have something to say.” 
said he to the musketeer, “something to say which you do not say. Come, 
speak freely, monsieur ; you know that I told you, once for all, that you 
are to be quite frank with me.” 

“Well, sire! what 1 have to say is this, that I would prefer being made 
captain of musketeers for having charged a battery at the head of my com- 
pany or taken a city, than for causing two wretches to be hung.” 

“Ts that quite true that you tell me?” 

“And why should your majesty suspect me of dissimulation, I ask ?” 

“Because I know you well, monsieur; you cannot repent of having 
drawn your sword for me.” 

“Well, in that your majesty is deceived, and greatly ; yes, I do repent 
of having drawn my sword on account of the results that action produced ; 
the poor men who were hung, sire, were neither your enemies nor mine ; 
and they could not defend themselves.” 

- The king preserved silence fora moment. “And your companion, M. 
d’Artagnan, does he partake of your repentance ?” 

“My companion ?” 

“Yes, you were not alone, I have been told.” 

“ Alone, where ??>——“ At the Place de Gréve.” 

“No, sire, no!” said D’Artagnan, blushing at the idea that the king 
might have a suspicion that he, D’Artagnan, had wished to engross to him- 
self all the glory that belonged to Raoul ; “no, szordioux / and as your 
majesty says, I had a companion, and a good companion, too.” 

“ A young man ?’——“ Yes, sire, a young man. Oh! your majesty 
must accept my compliments, you are as well informed of things out of 
doors as with things within. It is M. Colbert who makes all these fine 
reports to the king.” 

““M. Colbert had said nothing but good of you, M. d’Artagnan, and he 
would have met with a bad reception if he had come to tell me anything 

Ise.” 

“ That is fortunate.” 

“But he also said much good of that young man.” 

“‘ And with justice,” said the musketeer. 

“In short, it appears that this young man is a brave,” said Louis, in 
order to sharpen the sentiment which he mistook for envy. 
| “A brave! Yes, sire,” repeated D’Artagnan, delighted on his part to 
direct the king’s attention to Raoul. 
| Do you not know his name ?’——“ Well, I think——” 

“ You know him then ?” 

““T have known him nearly five-and-twenty years, sire.” 

“‘ Why, he is scarcely twenty-five years old !” cried the king. 

“ Well, sire, I have known him ever since his birth, that is all.” 
_ “Do you affirm that °” 
) “Sire,” said D’Artagnan, “your majesty questions me with a mistrust in 
which I recognise another character than your own. M. Colbert, who has 
} well informed you, has he not forgotten to tell you that this young man 


the son of my most intimate friend 2” : 
“ The Vicomte de Bragelonne is ?” " 
Certainly, sire, The father of the Vicomte de Bragelonne is M.- le 


342 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 
Comte de la Fére, who so powerfully assisted in the restoration of King 
Charles II. Bragelonne is of a valiant race, sire.” . 

‘Then he is the son of that nobleman who came to me, or rather to M, 
Mazarin, on the part of King Charles II., to offer me his alliance ¢” 

&é Exactly, sire.” | 

“And the Comte de la Fére is a brave, say you ?” 

“Sire, he is a man who has drawn his sword more times for the king, 
your father, than there are, at present, days in the happy life of your 
majesty.” | 
- Tt was Louis XIV. who now bit his lip in his turn. 

“That is well, M. d’Artagnan, very well! And M, le Comte de la Fére 
is your friend, say you?” : | 

“For about forty years ; yes, sire. Your majesty may see that I do not 
speak to you of yesterday.” 

“Should you be glad to see this young man, M. d’Artagnan ?” 

“Delighted, sire.” 

The king touched his bell, and an usher appeared. “Call M. de Brage- 
lonne,” said the king.” - 

“Ah! ah! he is here?” said D’Artagnan. iiais 

“He is on guard to-day, at the Louvre, with the company of the gentle- 
men of monsieur le prince.” 

The king had scarcely ceased speaking, when Raoul presented himself, } 
and, on seeing D’Artagnan, smiled on him with that charming smile which } 
is only found upon the lips of youth. 
- “Come, come,” said D’Artagnan, familiarly, to Raoul, “the king will} 
allow you to embrace me ; only tell his majesty you thank him.” 

Raoul bowed so gracefully, that Louis, to whom all superior qualities } 
were pleasing when they did not affect anything against his own, admired] 
his beauty, strength, and modesty. 

“‘ Monsieur,” said the king, addressing Raoul, “I have asked monsieur} 
le prince to be kind enough to give you upto me; I have received hisf 
reply, and you belong to me from this morning. Monsieur le prince was} 
a good master, but I hope you will not lose by the change.” 

“Ves, yes, Raoul, be satisfied ; the king has some good in him,” said} 
D’Artagnan, who had fathomed the character of Louis, and who played 
with his self-love within certain limits ; always observing, be it understood 
the proprieties, and flattering, even when he appeared to be bantering. § 

“Sire,” said Bragelonne, with a voice soft and musical, and with the 
natural and easy elocution he inherited from his father ; “Sire, it is not¥ 
from to-day that I belong to your majesty.” 
--“Oh! no, I know,” said the king, “you mean your enterprise of the 
Gréve. That day you were truly mine, monsieur.” — | 

“ Sire, it is not of that day I would speak ; it would not become me to} 
refer to so paltry aservice in the presence of such a man as M. d’Artagnan. | 
I would speak of a circumstance which created an epoch in my life, and} 
which consecrated me, from the age of sixteen, to the devoted service 0. 
your majesty.” ) 

“Ah! ah!” said the king, “what is that circumstance? Tell meg 
monsieur.” 

_ “This is it, sire-—When I was setting out on my first campaign, that isf 
to say, to join the army of monsieur le prince, M. le Comte de la Feére 

came to conduct me as far as Saint-Denis, where the remains of King 
Louis XIII. wait, upon the lowest steps of the funereal daszligue, a suc 
eessor, whom God will not send him, I hope, for many years, Then he 


DARTAGNAN RECEIVES HIS CAPTAIN'S C OMMISSION. 343 


made me swear upon the ashes of our masters, to serve royalty, repre- 
sented by you—incarnate in you, sire—to serve it in word, in thought, and 
in action. I swore, and God and the dead were witnesses to my oath, 
During ten years, sire, I have not so often as I desired had occasion to 
keep it. I ama soldier of your majesty, and nothing else ; and, on call- 


u 


ng me nearer to you, 1 do not change my master, I only change my 


PP) 


Raoul was silent, and bowed. Louis still listened after he had done 
peaking. 

“ Mordioux !” cried D’Artagnan, “that is well spoken ! is it not, your 
ajesty? A good race! a noble race !” 
* Yes,” murmured the agitated king, without, however, daring to mani- 
est his emotion, for it had no other cause than the contact with a nature 
rminently aristocratic. “Yes, monsieur, you say truly ;—wherever you 
vere, you were the king’s. But in changing your garrison, believe me, you 
vill find an advancement of which you are worthy.” : 

Raoul saw that there stopped what the king had to say to him. And 
ith the perfect tact which characterised his refined nature, he bowed and 
tired, 
“Ts there anything else, monsieur, of which you have to inform me?” 
Baid the king, when he found himself again alone with D’Artagnan., 

“Yes, sire, and I kept that news for the last, for it is sad, and will 
lothe European royalty in mourning,” 

“What do you tell me?” ’ 
“Sire, in passing through Blois, a word, a sad word, echoed from the 
palace, struck my ear.” 
“Tn truth you terrify me, M. d’Artagnan !” - 
“ Sire, this word was pronounced to me by a Jigueur; who wore a crape 
n his arm.” 

“My uncle, Gaston of Orleans, perhaps ?” 

“ Sire, he has rendered his last sigh.” 

“And I was not warned of it !” cried the king, whose royal susceptibility 
aw an insult in the absence of this intelligence. 
“Oh! do not be angry, sire,” said D’Artagnan; “neither the couriers 
Paris, nor the couriers of the whole world, can travel with your servant : 
e courier from Blois will not be here these two hours, and he rides well, 
assure you, seeing that I only passed him on the other side of Orleans.” 
“My uncle Gaston,” murmured Louis, pressing his hand to his brow, 
nd comprising in those three words all that his memory recalled of that 
iame of opposite sentiments. 
“Eh! yes, sire, it is thus,” said D’Artagnan, philosophically replying to 
he royal thought, “it is thus the past flies away.” 

“That is true, monsieur, that is true; but there remains for us, thank 
30d ! the future ; and we will try to make it not too dark.” 

“I feel confidence in your majesty on that head,” said D’Artagnan 
bowing, “and now——” 
{ “You are right, monsieur ; I had forgotten the hundred leagues you 
ve just ridden. Go, monsieur, take care of one of the best of soldiers, 
nd when you have reposed a little, come and place yourself at my 
rders.” 

“Sire, absent or present, I always am so.” 

D’Artagnan bowed and retired. Then, as if he had only come from 
ontainebleau, he quickly traversed the Louvre to rejoin Bragelonne, 


eee ser 


344 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


CHAPTER LXXVIIL. 
A LOVER AND A MISTRESS. 


WHILST the wax-lights were burning in the castle of Blois, around th« 
inanimate body of Gaston of Orleans, that last representative of the past 
whilst the dourgeods of the city were making his epitaph, which was fa: 
from being a panegyric ; whilst madame the dowager, no longer remem 
bering that in her young days she had loved that:senseless corpse to sucl 
a degree as to fly the paternal palace for his sake, was making, within 
twenty paces of the funeral apartment, her little calculations of intere 
and her little sacrifices of pride ; other interests and other prides a, 
in agitation in all the parts of the castle into which a living soul coul 
penetrate. Neither the lugubrious sound of the bells, nor the voic 
of the chanters, nor the splendour of the wax-lights through the wi 
dows, nor the preparations for the funeral, had the power to divert th 
attention of two persons,.’placed at a window of the interior court— 
window that we are acquainted with, and which lightened a chambe. 
forming part of what were called the little apartments. For the rest, ; 
joyous beam of the sun, for the sun appeared to care very little for th 
loss France had just suffered ; a sunbeam, we say, descended upon ther 
drawing perfumes from the neighbouring flowers, and animating the wal. 
themselves. These two persons, so occupied, not by the death of th 
_ duc, but by the conversation which was the consequence of that deat 
these two persons were a young woman and a young man. The latt 
personage, a man of from twenty-five to twenty-six years of age, with | 
mien sometimes lively and sometimes dull, making good use of two im 
mensely large eyes, shaded with long eyelashes, was short of stature an) 
brown of skin; he smiled with an enormous, but well furnished mout 
and his pointed chin, which appeared to enjoy a mobility which natu 
does not ordinarily grant to that portion of the countenance, leant fro 
time to time very lovingly towards his interlocutrix, who, we must say, d 
not always draw back so rapidly as strict propriety had a right to requir 
The young girl—we know her, for we have already seen her, at that ve 
same window, by the light of that same sun—the young girl presented ; 
singular mixture of slyness and reflection ; she was charming when s 
laughed, beautiful when she became serious ; but, let us hasten to sq 
she was more frequently charming than beautiful. The two persons 
peared to have attained the culminating point of a discussion—half-ba} 
tering, half-serious. | 

“ Now, Monsieur Malicorne,” said the young girl, “does it, at lengt 
please you that we should talk reasonably ?”’ 

“Vou believe that that is very easy, Mademoiselle Aure,” replied t 
young man. 

“To do what we like, when we can only do what we are able——’ 

“ Good !” said the young man; “there she is bewildered in hi 
phrases.” 

“Who, I?” “Yes, you ; leave that lawyers’ logic, my dear.” 

“¢ Another impossibility.” 

“Clerk, I am Mademoiselle de Montalais.” 

“Demoiselle, I am Monsieur Malicorne.” 
_ “Alas, I know it well, and you overwhelm me by distance ; so I willsa’ 
no more to you.” 

“Well, but, no, I don’t overwhelm you ; say what you have to tell me- 
say it, I insist upon it.”———“ Well, I obey you,” | 


b 


A LOVER AND A MISTRESS, _ 345 


_« That is truly fortunate.’——“ Monsieur is dead.” 

“ Ah, peste / there’s news! And where do you come from, to be able to 
ell us that ?” 

-“T come from Orleans, mademoiselle.” 

“ And is that all the news you bring ?” 

“Ah, no; I am come to tell you that Madame Henrietta of England is 
foming to marry his majesty’s brother.” 
h “ Indeed, Malicorne, you are insupportable with your news of the last 
fentury. Now, mind, if you persist in this bad habit of laughing at people, 
{ will have you turned out.” 
. &Oh ——“ Yes : for really you exasperate me.” 
“ There, there. Patience, mademoiselle.” 
“ You want to make yourself of consequence ; I know well enough why. 
50 !” 
' «Tell me, and I will answer you frankly, yes, if the thing be true.” 
, “You know that I am anxious to have that commission of lady of honour, 
thich I have been foolish enough to ask of you, and you do not use your 
redit.” 

“ Who, I ?’ Malicorne cast down his eyes, joined his hands, and assumed 
is sullen air. “And what credit can the poor clerk of a procureur have, 
ray?” 
| “ Your father has not twenty thousand livres a year for nothing, M. Mali- 
‘orne.” 
 “ A provincial fortune, Mademoiselle de Montalais.” 

“ Your father is not in the secrets of monsieur le prince for nothing.” 


“ An advantage which is confined to lending monseigneur money.” 


' « How so 2?“ Since I maintain that I have no credit, and you main- 
ain I have.” 
“ Well, then,—my commission ?”———“ Well—your commission ’” 
| “ Shall I have it, or shall I not ??———“ You shall have it.” 
y * Ay, but when ?” “ When you like.” 
o “Where is it then ??——“ In my pocket.” 
tt“ How—in your pocket?” “Yes.” And, with a smile, Malicorne 
I rew from his pocket a letter, upon which Montalais seized as a prey, and 
hich she read with avidity. As she read, her face brightened. 
a 3 Malicorne,” cried she, after having read it, “in truth, you are a good 
ra a 
“ What for, mademoiselle ?” 
t “Because you might have been paid for this commission, and you have 
lot.” And she burst into a loud laugh, thinking to put the clerk out of 
(ountenance ; but Malicorn sustained the attack bravely. 
“J do not understand you,” said he. It was now Montalais who was 
Lisconcerted in her turn. “I have declared my sentiments to_ you,” 
yntinued Malicorne. “ You have told me three times, laughing all the 
bhile, that you did not love me; you have embraced me once without 
aughing, and that is all I want.” 
- “All” said the proud and coquettish Montalais, in a tone through 
which wounded pride was visible. 
“ Absolutely all, mademoiselle,” replied Malicorne. 
_ “Ah!?—And this monosyllable indicated as much anger as the 
oung man might have expected gratitude. He shook his head quietiy. 


346 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“Listen, Montalais,” said he, without heeding whether that familiarity 
pleased his mistress or not ; “let us not dispute about it.” 

And why not ?” 

“ Because during the year which I have known you, you might have 
had me turned out of doors twenty times if I did not please you.” 

“ Indeed ; and on what account should I have had you turned out ?” 

“Because I have been sufficiently impertinent for that.” 

“ Oh, that,—yes, that’s true.” 

“You see plainly that you are forced to avow it,” said Malicorne, 

** Monsieur Malicorne !” 

“Don’t let us be angry ; if you have retained me, then, it has not bee 
without cause.” 

“Tt is not, at least, because I love you,” cried Montalais. 

“Granted. I will even say that, at this moment, I am certain that yo 
execrate me.” 

“Oh, you have never spoken so truly.” 

“ Well, on my part, I detest you.” 

“ Ah, I take the act.” 

“Take it. You find me brutal and foolish ; on my part I find you wit 
a harsh voice, and your face distorted with anger. At this moment yo 
would allow yourself to be thrown out of that window rather than allowm 
to kiss the tip of your finger ;—I would precipitate myself from the top o 
the balcony rather than touch the hem of yourrobe. But, in five minutes 
you will love me, and I shall adore you. Oh, it is just so.” 

“ T doubt it.”——“ And I swear it.” 

* Coxcomb !”—-—“ And then, that is not the true reason. You stand i 
need of me, Aure, and I of you. When it pleases you to be gay, I mak 
you laugh ; when it suits me to be loving, I look at you. I have given yo 
a commission of lady of honour which you wished for ; you will give m 
presently, something I wish for.” 

“T will ?’——“ Yes, you will; but, at this moment, my dear Aure, 
declare to you that I wish for absolutely nothing ; so be at ease.” 

“You are a frightful man, Malicorne ; I was going to rejoice at gettin 
this commission, and thus you take away all my joy.” 

“Good ; there is no time lost,—you will rejoice when I am gone.” 

“Go, then ; and after——” 

So be it ; but, in the first place, a piece of advice."°———“ What is it ?” 

“ Resume your good humour,—you are ugly when you pout.” 

* Coarse !” 

“Come, let us tell our truths to each other, while we are about it.” 

“Oh, Malicorne! Bad-hearted man !” 

* Oh, Montalais! Ungrateful girl !” 

The young man leant with his elbow upon the window-frame ;—Monta- 
lais took a book and opened it. Malicorne stood up, brushed his hat with 
his sleeve, smoothed down his black pourpoint ;—Montalais, though pre- 
tending to read, looked at him out of the corner of her eye. 

“Good !” cried she, quite furious ; ‘ he has assumed his respectful air— 
and he will pout for a week.” 

“ A fortnight, mademoiselle,” said Malicorne, bowing. 

Montalais lifted up her little doubled fist. “ Monster !” said she ; “oh! 
that I were a man!” 

“What would you do to me 2” “T would strangle you.” 


“Ah ! very well, then,” said Malicorne ; “I believe I begin to desir 
something,” | 


} 


A LOVER AND A MISTRESS. 347 


“ And what do you desire, Monsieur Demon? That I should lose my 
oul from anger ?” 

Malicorne was rolling his hat respectfully between his fingers ; but, all 
t once, he let fall his hat, seized the young girl by the two shoulders, 
pulled her towards him, and applied to her lips two other very warm lips 
or a man pretending to so much indifference. Aure would have cried out, 
t the cry was stifled in the kiss. Nervous and, apparently, angry, the 
ing girl pushed Malicorne against the wall. 

‘Good !” said Malicorne, philosophically, “that’s enough for six weeks, 
ieu, mademoiselle, accept my very humble salutation.” And he made 
ee steps towards the door. 
‘Well! no,—you shall not go!” cried Montalais, stamping with her 
e foot. “Stay where youare! -I order you !” 
‘Vou order me ?”?——-“ Yes ; am I not mistress?” 
‘ Of my heart and soul, without doubt.” 
‘A pretty property! ma foi / The soul is silly and the heart dry.” 
‘ Beware, Montalais, I know you,” said Malicorne ; “you are going to 
in love with your humble servant.” 
‘Well, yes !” said she, hanging round his neck with childish indolence, 
ner than with loving abandonment, ‘“ Well, yes! for I must thank you, 
east.” 
And for what ?” 
‘For the commission ; is it not my whole future ?* 
‘And all mine.” Montalais looked at him. 
It is frightful,” said she, “that one can never guess whether you are 
aking seriously or not.” 
‘I cannot speak more seriously. I was going to Paris,—you are going 
re,—we are going there.” 
‘ And so it was for that motive only you have served me; selfish fellow !” 
What would you have me say, Aure? I cannot live without you.” 
Well! in truth, it is just so with me; you are, nevertheless, it must be 
fessed, a very bad-hearted young man.” 
‘Aure, my dear Aure, take care! if you take to calling names again, 
M, know the effect they produce upon me, and I shall adore you.” And 
so saying, Malicorne drew the young girl a second time towards him. But 
at that instant a step resounded on the staircase. The young people were 
so close, that they would have been surprised in the arms of each other, if 
Montalais had not violently pushed Malicorne, with his back against the 
door, just then opening, A loud cry, followed by angry reproaches, 
immediately resounded. It was Madame de Saint-Remy who uttered the 
cry and proffered the angry words. The unlucky Malicorne almost 
crushed her between the wall and the door she was coming in at. 
“Tt is again that good-for-nothing !” cried the old lady. “ Always here !” 
“ Ah, madame!” replied Malicorne, in a respectful tone; “it is eight 
long days since I was here,” 


CHAPTER LXXVIIL. 


IN WHICH WE AT LENGTH SEE THE TRUE HEROINE OF THIS 
HISTORY APPEAR. 


EHIND Madame de Saint-Remy came up Mademoiselle de la Valliére, 
e heard the explosion of maternal anger, and as she divined the cause 
jt, she entered the chamber trembling, and perceived the unlucky Mali- 


348 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONME. 


corne, whose woeful countenance might have softened or set faughin 
whoever might have observed it coolly. He had promptly intrenche, 
himself behind a large chair, as if to avoid the first attacks of Madame d 
Saint-Remy ; he had no hopes of prevailing with words, for she spok 
louder than he, and without stopping ; but he reckoned upon the eloquence 
of his gestures, The old lady would neither listen to nor see anything 
Malicorne had long been one of her antipathies. But her anger was ti 
great not to overflow from Malicorne on to his accomplice. Montalz 
had her turn. 

“And you, mademoiselle ; and you, may you not be certain I shall i 
form madame of what is going on in the apartment of one of her ladies 
honour ?” . 

“Oh, dear mother!” cried Mademoiselle de la Valliére, “for merc} 
sake, spare——” 

“ Hold your tongue, mademoiselle, and do not uselessly trouble your 
to intercede for unworthy subjects ; that a young maid of honour like y 
should be subjected to a bad example is, certes, a misfortune great enoug! 
but that you should sanction it by your indulgence is what I will not alloy, 

“ But in truth,” said Montalais, rebelling again, “I do not know una 
what pretence you treat me thus. I am doing no harm, I suppose ?” 

“And that great good-for-nothing, mademoiselle,” resumed Madar 
de Saint-Remy, pointing to Malicorne—“ is he here to do any good, I 4 
you ?” | 

“He is neither here for good nor harm, madame ; he comes to see 
—that is all.” 

“Tt is all very well—all very well !” said the old lady. “ Her royal hi 
ness shall be informed of it, and she will judge.” 

“At all events, I do not see why,” replied Montalais, “it should be f 
bidden that M. Malicorne should have intentions towards me, if his int 
tions are honourable.” 

“Honourable intentions with such a face !” cried Madame de Sai 
Remy. 

‘I thank you, in the name of my face, madame,” said Malicorne. 

“Come, my daughter, come,” continued Madame de Saint-Remy ; “ 
will go and inform madame that, at the very moment she is weeping ft 
her husband, at the moment when we are all weeping for a master in this 
old castle of Blois, the abode of grief, there are people who amuse them- 
selves with rejoicing.” 

‘Oh !” cried both the accused, with one voice. 

“A maid of honour ! a maid of honour !” cried the old lady, lifting her 
hands towards heaven. 

“Well, it is that in which you are mistaken, madame,” said Montalais, 
highly exasperated ; “ I am no longer a maid of honour—of madame’s, at 
least.” 

“ Have you given in your resignation, mademoiselle? That is well! 1 
cannot but applaud such a determination, and I do applaud it.” 

“I do not give in my resignation, madame ; I take another service— 
that is all.” 

“In the dourgeotste or in the robe 2” asked Madame de Saint-Remy, 
disdainfully 

“ Please to learn, madame, that I am not agirl to serve either bourgeotse 
ar robines ; and that, instead of the miserable court at which you vegetat 
I am going to reside in a court almost royal.” 

“Ah, ah! a royal court !” said Madame de Saint-Remy, forcing a laug 
—“a royal court! What think you of that, my daughter ?” 


THE TRUE HEROINE APPEARS. 349 


And she turned round towards Mademoiselle de la Valligre, whom she 
‘ould by main force have dragged away from Montalais, and who, instead 
fobeying the impulse of Madame de Saint-Remy, looked first at her 
iother and then at Montalais with her beautiful conciliatory eyes. 

“] did not say a royal court, madame,” replied Montalais ; *“ because 
adame Henrietta, of England, who is about to become the wife of S. A. R. 
onsieur, is not aqueen. | said almost royal, and I spoke correctly, since 
e will be sister-in-law to the king.” 
A thunderbolt falling upon the castle of Blois would not have astonished 
adame de Saint-Remy as did the last sentence of Montalais. 

“What do you say of Son Altesse Royale Madame Henrietta ?” stam- 


red out the old lady. 


“T say I am going to 
” 


“ As maid of honour !” cried, at the same time, Madame de Saint-Remy 
th despair, and Mademoiselle dela Valliére with delight. 

‘Yes, madame, as maid of honour.” 
[he old lady’s head sunk down as if the blow had been too severe for 


; but, almost immediately recovering herself, she launched a last pro- 


ile at her adversary. 
’ said she, “I have heard of many of these sorts of promises 


i ften lead people to flatter themselves with wild hopes, 
d at the last moment, when the time comes to keep the promises, and 
ve the hopes realised, they are surprised to see the great credit upon 
ich they reckoned reduced to smoke.” 
“Oh, madame, the credit of my protec 


ises are as good as acts.” 
“ And would it be indiscreet to ask you the name of this powerful pro- 


belong to her household, as maid of honour ; that 


tor is incontestable, and his pro- 


“Oh, mon Dieu! no; it is that gentleman there,” said Montalais, 
i who during this scene had preserved the most im- 


rturbable coolness, and the most comic dignity. 


“ Monsieur!” cried Madame de Saint-Remy, with an explosion of hilarity, 
monsieur is your protector ! Is the man whose credit is so powerful, and 
whose promises are as good as acts, Monsieur Malicorne ?” 

Malicorne bowed. As to Montalais, as her sole reply, she drew the 
brevet from her pocket, and showed it to the old lady. 


“ Here is the drevet,” said she. 
At once all was over. As soon as she had cast a rapid glance over this 


fortunate brevet, the good lady clasped her hands, an unspeakable expres- 
sion of envy and despair contracted her countenance, and she was obliged 
to sit down to avoid fainting. Montalais was not malicious enough to re- 
joice extravagantly at her victory, or to overwhelm the conquered enemy, 
particularly when that enemy was the mother of her friend ; she used, 
then, but did not abuse, her triumph. Malicorne was less generous : he 
assumed noble Zoses in his fauteuil, and stretched himself out with a fami. 
liarity which, two hours earlier, would have drawn upon him threats of a 


atarliney. 
“ Maid of honour to the young madame !” repeated Madame de Saint- 


Remy, still but half convinced. 
“Yes, madame, and through the protection of M. Malicorne, moreover.” 


“ Tt is incredible !” repeated the old lady. “Ts it not incredible, Louise ?’ 
ut Louise did not reply ; she was leaning, thoughtfuf , almost afflicted ; 
assing one hand over her beautiful brow, she sighed heavily. 


386 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“Well, but, monsieur,” said Madame de Saint-Remy all at once, “hoi 
did you manage to obtain this post ?” 

“T asked for it, madame.” 

“ Of whom ?” “One of my friends.” 

“And have you friends sufficiently powerful at court to give you sucl 
proofs of their credit ?” 

“ Dame ! it appears so,” 

“ And may oneask the name of these friends ”” 

“I did not say I had many friends, madame ; I said I had one frien 

“ And that friend is called ?” 

“ Peste ! madame, you go too far! When one has a friend as power 
as mine, we do not publish his name in that fashion in open day, in or¢ 
that he may be stolen from us.” 

“You are right, monsieur, to be silent as to that name; for I think 
would be pretty difficult for you to tell it.” 

“At all events,” said Montalais, “if the friend does not exist, the de 
does exist, and that cuts short the question.” | 

“Then I conceive,” said Madame de Saint Remy, with the gray 
smile of a cat who is going to scratch, “when I found monsieur here 
now——” a 

“Well ?”——“ He brought you the drvever.” cay 

“Exactly, madame : you have guessed rightly.” AM 

Well, then, nothing can be more moral or proper. L 

“T think so, madame.” 

‘ And I have been wrong, as it appears, in reproaching you, mademt 
selle. 

“Very wrong, madame; but I am so accustomed to your reproaché 
that I pardon you these.” 

“In that case, let us be gone, Louise ; we have nothing to do but to 
tire. Well !’——“ Madame !” said La Valliére, starting. “did you speak 
~ © You do not appear to listen, my child.” 

“No, madame, I was thinking.” 

About what ?”——“ A thousand things.” 
~ “You bear me no ill-will, at least, Louise ?” cried Montalais, pressi 
her hand. 

Hl And why should I, my dear Aure ?” replied the girl, in a voice soft as 
a flute. | 

“ Dame !” resumed Madame de Saint Remy ; “if she did bear you a 


é 


little ill-will, poor girl, she could not be much blamed.” 


“ And why should she bear me ill-will, good God ?” a 
a It appears to me that she is of as good a family, and as pretty as 
you. 
“Mother ! mother!” cried Louise. 
“ Prettier a hundred times, madame—not of a better family ; but that 
does not tell me why Louise should bear me ill-will.” 
“Do you think it will be very amusing fcr her to be buried alive at 
Blois, when you are going to shine at Paris ?” 
“But, madame, it is not I who prevent Louise following me thither ; on 
the contrary, I should certainly be most happy if shé came there.” 
- But it appears that M. Malicorne, who is all-powerful at court 4 
_ Ah! so much the worse, madame,” said Malicorne, “every one fo 
himself in this poor world.” 


“ Malicorne ! Malicorne!” said Montalais. Then, stooping towards th 
young man ;— = ret Shed , 


> 


THE TRUE HEROINE APPEARS. 35% 
“Occupy Madame de Saint-Remy, either in disputing with her, of 
iaking it up with her; I must speak to Louise.” And, at the same 
me, a soft pressure of the hand recompensed Malicorne for his future 
bedience.  Malicorne went grumbling towards Madame de Saint- 
temy, whilst Montalais said to her friend, throwing one arm round her 
eck :— 
“ What is the matter? Say? Isit true that you would not love me if 
hwvere to shine, as your mother says ?” 
“Oh, no!” said the young girl, with difficulty restraining her tears ; 
“on the contrary, I rejoice at your good fortune.” 
“ Rejoice ! why one would say you are ready to cry |” 
“ Do people never weep but from envy ?” 
* Oh! yes, I understand ; I am going to 
lls to your mind a certain cavalier——” 
“ Aure ——“A certain cavalier who formerly lived near Blois, and who 
\w resides at Paris.” 
“Tn truth, I know not what ails me, but I feel stifled.” 
“ Weep, then, weep, as you cannot give me a smile !” 
ouise raised her sweet face, which the tears, rolling down one after the 
-sr, illumined like diamonds. 
€¥ Come, confess,” said Montalais. 
i; What shall I confess ?” 
“What makes you weep ; people don’t weep without a cause. I am 
Pur friend ; whatever you would wish me to do, I will do. Malicorne is 
Tyre powerful than you would think. Do you wish to go to Paris ?” 
Te Alas !” sighed Louise. 
rt ‘Do you wish to come to Paris ?” 
ik, To remain here alone, in this old castle, I, who have enjoyed the de- 
lintful habit of listening to your songs, of pressing your hand, of running 
Hout the park with you. Oh! how I shall be ennuyee ! how quickly | 
Il die !” 
Y¢ Do you wish to come to Paris?” Louise breathed another sigh. 
i You do not answer me.” 
‘What would you that I should answer you ?” 
“Yes or no; that is not very difficult, I think.” 
_,“Oh! you are very fortunate, Montalais !” 
J “That is to say you would like to be in my place.” Louise was silent. 
* “Little obstinate thing !” said Montalais ; “did ever anyone keep her 
secrets from her friend thus? But, confess that you would like to come to 
(Paris ; confess that you are dying with the wish to see Raoul again :” 
“T cannot confess that.”———“ Then you are wrong.” 
“ Because—— Do you see this dvevet ?? “In what way e 
“To be sure I do.” 
Well, I would have made you have a similar one.” 
‘““By whose means ?” 
“ Malicorne’s.” —“ Aure, do you tell the truth? Is that possible a 
“ Dame! Malicorne is there ; and what he has done for me, he must be 
sure to do for you.” J 
Malicorne had heard his natne pronounced twice ; he was delighted 
at having an opportunity of coming to a conclusion with Madame de 
ey Remy, and he turned round :— 
r 


Paris, and that word Paris re- 


“What is the question, mademoiselle m 
“ Come hither, Malicorne,” said Montalais, with an imperious gesture. 
alicorne obeyed. 


352. THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“A brevet like this,” said Montalais. 


“ How so ?”»—_“ A brevet like this ; that is plain enough.” 
But »____“T want one—I must have one !” 
“Oh! oh! you must have one !”——“ Yes,” 


“Tt is impossible, is it not, M. Malicorne?” said Louise with ‘her sweet 
soft voice. j ae 

“ Dame ! if it is for you, mademoiselle ‘ 

“Forme. Yes, Monsieur Malicorne, it would be for me.” 

“ And if Mademoiselle de Montalais asks it at the same time——” 

** Mademoiselle de Montalais does not ask it, she requires it.” 

“Well! we will endeavour to obey you, mademoiselle.” 

‘And you will have her named ?’-—“ We will try.” 

“No evasive reply. Louise de la Valli¢re shall be maid of honour {J 
Madame Henrietta within a week.” -—“ How you talk !” 

“Within a week, or else 7___“Wel]l ! or else !” 

“You may take back your drvevet, Monsieur Malicorne ; I will not leaW 
my friend.”—-—“ Dear Montalais !” 

“That is right. Keep your drevet; Mademoiselle de la Valliére sha 
be a maid of honour.” 

“Ts that true ?,>——“ Quite true.” 

““T may then hope to go to Paris ??——“ Depend upon it.” L, 

“Oh ! Monsieur Malicorne, what gratitude !” cried Louise, clapping h¥ 
hands, and bounding with joy. 3 

“Little dissembler !” said Montalais, “try again tomake me believe yo 
are not in love with Raoul.” q 

Louise blushed like a rose in June, but instead of replying, she ran a 
embraced her mother. “Madame,” said she, “do you know that 
Malicorne is going to have me appointed maid of honour?” 

‘““M. Malicorne is a prince in disguise,” replied the old lady ; “heis a 
powerful, seemingly.” 

“Should you also like to be maid of honour?’ asked Malicorne § 
Madame de Saint-Remy. “ Whilst I am about it, 1 might as well get ever} 
body appointed.” 

And upon that he went away, leaving the poor lady quite disconcertel 
as Tallemont des Réaux would say. ; 

“ Humph !” murmured Malicorne, as he descended the stairs,—“ Humph |, 
there is another note of a thousand livres that will cost me ; but I mt “ 
get through as well as I can; my friend Manicamp does nothing fo. 
nothing.” 


inno 


CHAPTER Exxi 
MALICORNE AND MANICAMP, 


THE introduction of these two new personages into this history, and that 
mysterious affinity of names and sentiments, merit some attention on the 
part of the historian and the reader. We will then enter into some details 
concerning M. Malicorne and M. Manicamp. Malicorne, we know, had 
made the journey to Orleans in search of the brevet destined for Made- 
moiselle de Montadats, the arrival of which had produced such a strong 
feeling at thecastleof Blois. Atthat moment M.de Manicamp was at Orleansp 
A singular personage was this M. de Manicamp ; a very intelligent youn 

fellow, always poor, always needy, although he dipped his hand freely int 

the purse of M. le Comte de Guiche, one of the best-furnished purses | 


MALICORNE AND MANICAME, 353 


€period. M. le Comte de Guiche had had as the companion of his boy- 
od this De Manicamp, a poor gentleman vassal born, of the house of 
rammont. M. de Manicamp, with his acuteness, had created himself 
revenue in the opulent family of the celebrated maréchal. From his 
fancy, he had, by a calculation much above his age, lent his name and 
s complaisance to the follies of the Comte de Guiche. If his noble com- 
nion had stolen some fruit destined for Madame la Maréchale, if he had 
oken a mirror, or put out a dog’s eye, Manicamp declared himself guilty 
the crime committed, and received the punishment, which was not 
de the more mild for falling upon the innocent. But this was the way 
which this system of abnegation was paid for ; instead of wearing such 
an habiliments as his paternal fortunes entitled him to, he was able to 
ear brilliant, superb, like a young noble of fifty thousand livres a year. 
as not that he was mean in character or humble in spirit ; no, he was 
philosopher, or rather he had the indifference, the apathy, the extrava- 
hce which banish from man every feeling of the hierarchical world. His 
€ ambition was to spend money. But, in this respect, the worthy M. de 
anicamp was a gulf. Three or four times every year he drained 
: Comte de Guiche, and when the Comte de Guiche was thoroughly 
timed, when he had turned out his pockets and his purse before him, 
en he declared that it would be at least a fortnight betore paternal mu- 
icence would re-fill those pockets and that purse, De Manicamp lost all 
energy, he went to bed, remained there, ate nothing, and sold his hand- 
ne clothes, under the pretence that, remaining in bed, he did not want 
m. During this. prostration of mind and ea@éngth, the purse of the 
mte de Guiche was getting full again, and when once filled, overflowed 
9 that of De Manicamp, who bought new clothes, dressed himself again, 
1 recommenced the same life he had followed before. This mania of 
ing his new clothes for a quarter of what they were worth, had rendered 
‘hero sufficiently celebrated in Orleans, a city, where, in general, we 
uld be puzzled to say why he came to pass his days of penitence. 
wincial debauchés, petit maitres of six hundred livres a year, shared the 
rments of his opulence. . 
imong the admirers of these splendid toilettes, our friend Malicorne 
; conspicuous ; he was the sor. of a syndic of the city, of whom M. de 
fs always needy as a De @Ondé, often borrowed money at enormous 


west. M. Malicorne kept the paternal money chest; that is to say, 
in those times of easy morals, he had made for himself, by following 
‘example of his father, and lending at high interest for short terms, a 
snue of eighteen hundred livres, without reckoning six hundred other 
es furnished by the generosity of the syndic; so that Malicorne was 
‘king of the gay yout: of Orleans, having two thousand four hundred 
es to scatter, squander, and waste on follies of every kind. But, quite 
trary to Manicamp, Malicorne was terribly ambitious. He loved from 
dition ; he spent money from ambition ; and he would have ruined him- 
from ambition. Malicorne had determined to rise, at whatever price 
aight cost; and for this, at whatever price it did cost, he had given 
‘self a mistress and a friend. The mistress, Mademoiselle de Mon- 
is, was cruel, as regarded the last favours of love ; but she was of a 
Je family, and that was sufficient for Malicorne. The friend had no 
idship, but he was the favourite of the Comte de Guiche, himself the 
id of Monsieur, the king’s brother ; and that was sufficient for Mali- 
ne. Only, in the chapter of charges, Mademoiselle cost fer an. is 
vons, gloves and sweets a thousand livres. De Manicamp cost—money 
23 

| 


354 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


lent, never returned, from twelve to fifteen hunded livres fer av. So tha 

there was nothing left for Malicorne. Ah; yes, we are mistaken ; there 
was left the paternal strong box. He employed a mode of proceeding 
upon which he preserved the most profound secrecy, and which consisted 
in advancing to himself, from the coffer of the syndic, half a dozen years, 
that is to say, fifteen thousand livres, swearing to himself—observe, quite to 
himself—to repay this deficiency as soon as an opportunity should presep* 
itself, The opportunity was expected to be the concession of a good po jj 
in the household of Monsieur, when that household would be establish« 


at the period of his marriage. This period was arrived, and the househo} 
was about to be established. A good post in the family of a prince of t 
blood, when it is given by the credit, and on the recommendation of 
friend, like the Comte de Guiche, is worth at ieast twelve thousand liv), 
per an. and by the means which M. Malicorne had taken to make 
revenues fructify, twelve thousand livres might rise to twenty thousai 
Then, when once an incumbent of this post, he would marry Mademoise 
de Montalais. Mademoiselle de Montalais, of a family which the woma: 
side ennobles, not only would be dowered, but would ennoble Malicor 
But, in order that Mademoiselle de Montalais, who had not a large pa 
monial fortune, although an only daughter, should be suitably dowered, 
was necessary that she should belong to some great princess, as prodig 
as the dowager Madame was covetous. And in order that the wife shou 
not be on one side whilst the husband was on the other, a situation whi 
presents serious inconveniences, particularly with characters like those} 
the future consorts—Malicorne had imagined the idea of making 
central point of union the household of Monsieur the king’s brot 
Mademoiselle de Montalais would be maid of honour to Madame. 
Malicorne would be officer to Monsieur. 

It is plain the plan was formed by a clear head ; it is plain, also, thaq 
had been bravely executed. Malicorne had asked Manicamp to ask 


ones 


| 
i 


brevet of maid of honour of the Comte de Guiche ; and the Comte 
Guiche had asked this dvevet of Monsieur, who had signed it without h¢ 
tation. The moral plan of Malicorne—for we may well suppose that 
combinations of a mind as active as his were not confined to the prese 
but extended to the future—the moral plan of Malicorne, we say, 
this :—To obtain entrance into the household of Madame Henrietta, f 
woman devoted to himself, who was intelligent, young, handsome, |, | 
intriguing ; to learn, by means of this woman, all the feminine secret, 

the young household ; whilst he, Malicorne, and his friend Manica 
should, between them, know all the male secrets of the young commun)? 
It was by these means that a rapid and splendid fortune might be acqui, 
at one and the same time. Malicorne was a vile name ; he who a 


had too much wit to conceal this truth from himself ; but an estate mi 
be purchased ; and Malicorne of some place, or even De Malicorne it 

quite short, would sound nobly in the ear. ; 

It was not improbable that a most aristocratic origin might be foun 

this name of Malicorne ; might it not come from some estate where a 
with mortal horns had caused some great misfortune, and baptized 
soil with the blood it had spilt? Certes, this plan presented itself b 
ling with difficulties ; but the greatest of all was Mademoiselle de Moi, 
lais herself. Capricious, variable, close, giddy, free, prudish, a virg 
armed with claws, Erigone stained with grapes, she sometimes overturne 
with a single dash of her white fingers, or with a single puff from 
laughing lips, the edifice which had employed the patience of Malicorng 
month to establish. 


MALICORNE AND MANICAMP. 355 


Love apart, Malicorne was happy, but this love which he could not help 
feeling, he had the strength to conceal with care, persuaded that at the 
least relaxing of the ties by which he had bound his Protean female, the 
demon would overthrow him and laugh at him. He humbled his mistress 
by disdaining her. Burning with desire, when she advanced to tempt 
him, he had the heart to appear ice, persuaded that if he opened his arms, 
she would run away laughing at him. On her side, Montalais believed 
she did not love Malicorne ; whilst, on the contrary, she did love him. 
Malicorne repeated to her so often his protestation of indifference, that she 
finished, sometimes, by believing him ; and then she believed she detested 
Malicorne. Ifshe tried to bring him back by coquetry, Malicorne played the 
toquet better than she could. But what made Montalais hold to Malicorne 
in an indissoluble fashion was that Malicorne was always come cram full 
of fresh news brought from the court and the city ; it was that Malicorne 

Iways brought to Blois a fashion, a secret, or a perfume ; it was that 
alicorne never asked for a meeting, but, on the contrary, required to be 
upplicated to receive the favours he burned to obtain. On her side, 
ontalais was no miser with stories. By her means Malicorne learnt all 
at passed at Blois, in the family of the dowager Madame ; and he re- 
lated to Manicamp tales that made him ready to die with laughing, which 
the latter, out of idleness, took ready-made to M. de Guiche, who carried 
them to Monsieur. 
, Such, in two words, was the woof of petty interests and petty conspira- 
cies which united Blois with Orleans, and Orleans with Paris ; and which 
was about to bring into the last-named city, where she was to produce so 
great a revolution, the poor little La Vallitre, who was far from suspecting, as 
phe returned joyfully, leaning on the arm of her mother, for what a strange 
uture she was reserved. As to the good man, Malicorne—we speak of 
the syndic of Orleans—he did not see more clearly into the present than 
bts did into the future ; and had no suspicion, as he walked every day, 


| 


etween three and five o’clock, after his dinner, upon the Place Sainte- 
atherine, in his grey coat, cut after the fashion of Louis XIII., and his 
tloth-shoes with great knots of ribbon, that it was he who paid for all 
those bursts of laughter, all those stolen kisses, all those whisperings, all 
(hat ribbonry, and all those bubble projects which formed a chain of forty- 
ve leagues in length, from the palais of Blois to the Palais Royal. 


_— 


CHAPTER LXXx. 
MANICAMP AND MALICORNE. 


VALICORNE, then, left Blois, as we have said, and went to find his friend 
Vanicamp, then in temporary retreat in the city of Orleans. It was just 
it the moment when that young nobleman was employed in selling the 
ast piece of decent clothing he had left. He had, a fortnight before, ex- 
orted from the Comte de Guiche a hundred pistoles, all he had, to assist 
n equipping him properly to go and meet Madame, on her arrival at 
avre. He had drawn from Malicorne, three days before, fifty pistoles, 
e price of the dvevez obtained for Montalais. He had then no expecta- 
ions from anything else, having exhausted all his resources, with the ex- 
ception of selling a handsome suit of cloth and satin, all embroidered and 
laced with gold, which had been the admiration of the court. But to be 
able to sell this suit, the last he had left,—as we have been forced to con- 
fess to the reader—Manicamp had been obliged to take to his bed, No 
23—a 


336 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


more fire, no more pocket-money, no more walking-money, nothing but 
sleep to take the places of repasts, companies, and balls. It has been 
said—“‘He who sleeps, dines ;” but it has not been said—He who sleeps, 
plays,—or, He who sleeps, dances. Manicamp, reduced to this extremity of 
neither playing nor dancing, for a week at least, was, consequently, very 
sad ; he was expecting a usurer, and saw Malicorne enter. A cry of dis- 


tress escaped him. 

“Eh! what !” said he, in a tone which nothing can describe, “is that 
you again, dear friend ?” | 

“Humph ! you are very polite !” said Malicorne. _ 

“ Ay; but, look you, I was expecting money, and, insteaa of the money, 
I see you come.” 

“ And suppose I brought you some money ?” 

“Oh, then it is quite another thing. You are very welcome, my dea 
friend !” 

And he held out his hand, not for the hand of Malicorne, but for the 
purse. Malicorne pretended to be mistaken, and gave him his hand. 

“And the money ?” said Manicamp. 

* My dear friend, if you wish to have it, earn it.” 

“What must be done for it ?” “Earn it, parbleu 

* And after what fashion ?” “Oh, that is rather trying, I warn you.” 

he devil!” 

“You must get out of bed,and go immediately to M. le Comte de Guiche.” 

“T get up !” said Manicamp, stretching himself in his bed voluptuously ; 
oh, no, thank you !” 

“You have, then, sold all your clothes ?” 

“No; I have one suit left—the handsomest even—but I expect a pur- 
chaser.” —-—-“ And the chausses 2?” 

“ Well, if you look, you can see them on that chair.” 

“Very well; since you have some chausses and a fourpotnt left, put 
your legs into the first and your back into the other, have a horse saddled, 
and set off.” Tot ay” 

“And why not ?” 

“ Worbleu / don’t you know, then, that M. de Guiche is at Etampes ?” 

“No; 1 thought he was at Paris. You will then only have fiftee 
leagues to go, instead of thirty.” 

“ You are a wonderfully clever fellow! If I were to ride fifteen league 
ia these clothes, they would never be fit to put on again ; and, instead o1, 
selling them for thirty pistoles, I should be obliged to take fifteen.’ 

f 


* Sell them for what you like, but I must have a second commission 0 
maid of honour.” . 

“Good! For whom? Is Montalais doubled, then ?” 

“Vile fellow! It is you who are doubled ; you swallow up two fortunes 
—mine, and that of M. le Comte de Guiche.” 

“You should say that of M. le Comte de Guiche and yours.” 

“That is true—honour where it is due ; but I return to my brevet.” 

* And you are wrong” “Prove me that.” - 

“ My friend, there will only be twelve maids of honour for madame ; 

r 


have already obtained for you what twelve hundred women are trying fo 
and for that I was forced to employ my diplomacy.” 

“Oh, yes, I know you have been quite heroic, my dear friend.” 

“We know what we are about,” said Manicamp. 
ie To whom do you tell that? When I am king, I promise you one 
thing. : ; 


QANICAMP AND MALICORNE. sone 


“What? To call you Malicorne I. ?” 

“No; to make you surintendant of my finances. But that is not the 
question now.” . 

“ Unfortunately.” 

“The present affair is to procure for me a second place of maid of 
honour.” 

“ My friend, if you were to promise me heaven I would not disturb my- 
self at this moment.” Malicorne chinked the money in his pocket. 

“There are twenty pistoles here,” said Malicorne. 

“ And what would you do with twenty pistoles, zon Dieu /” 

“Well,” said Malicorne, a little angrily, “suppose I were only to add 
them to the five hundred you already owe me ?” 

“You are right,” replied Manicamp, stretching out his hand again, “and 
in that point of view I can accept them. Give them to me.” 

“An instant. What the devil! it is not only holding out your hand that 
will do ; if I give you the twenty pistoles, shall I have my dvevet 2” 

“To be sure you shall.” 

*¢ Soon ?” *“* To-day.” 

“ Oh, take care, Monsieur de Manicamp ; you undertake much, and I 
do not ask that. Thirty leagues in a day is too much; you would kill 
yourself.” 

“T think nothing impossible when obliging a friend.” 

“You are quite heroic.” 

“Where are the twenty pistoles °” 

“ Here they are,” said Malicorne, showing them. 

= Lhat’s well.” “Yes ; but, my dear M. Manicamp, you would con- 
sume them in nothing but post-horses.” 

** No, no ; make yourself easy on that head.” 

“Pardon me ; why, it is fifteen leagues from this place to Etampes.” 

“Fourteen.” “Well, fourteen be it. Fourteen leagues make seven 
posts, at twenty sous the post, seven /zvres,; seven “vres the courier, 
fourteen ; as many for coming back, twenty-eight ; as much for bed and 
supper—that makes sixty of the “vves which this complaisance would cost 
you.” 

Manicamp stretched himself like a serpent in his bed, and, fixing his 
two great eyes upon Malicorne, “You are right,” said he ; “I could not 
return before to-morrow ;” and he took the twenty pistoles. 

“ Now, then, be off !” 

“Well, as I cannot be back before to-morrow, we have time.” 

“Time for what ?” “Time to play.” 

“What do you wish to play with ?,p—-—“ Your twenty pistoles, ardieu !” 

“No; you always win.” —-—“I will wager them, then.” 

“ Against what ?” “ Against twenty others.” 

“ And what shall be the object of the wager ?” 

“This. We have said it was fourteen leagues to go to Etampes ?” 

“ Ves,”_—“ And fourteen leagues back ?,—-—“ Doubtless.” 

“ Well, for these twenty-eight leagues you cannot allow less than four- 
teen hours ?” 

“That is agreed.” 

“ One hour to find the Comte de Guiche.”——“ Go on.” 

“ And an hour to persuade him to write a letter to Monsieur.” 

“ Just so.” 

“Sixteen hours in all.” 

“You reckon as well as M. Colbert,” 


358 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“Tt is now twelve o’clock.”—-—“ Half-past.” 

“ Hein / you have a handsome watch.” 

“What were you saying?” said Malicorne, putting his watch quickly 
back into his fob. 

“ Ah! true; I was offering to lay you twenty pistoles against these you 
have lent me, that you will have the Comte de Guiche’s letter in——” 

“ How soon ??——“ Jn eight hours.” 

“ Have you a winged horse, then ?” 

“That is no matter. Will you lay?” 

“T shall have the comte’s letter in eight hours ?’——“ Yes.” 

“Tn hand ?»——“ In hand.” 

* Well, be it so; I lay,” said Malicorne, curious to know how this seller 
of clothes would get through. 

“Ts it agreed ?’——“ It is.” 

“Pass me the pen, ink, and paper.” 

“ Here they are.” “Thank you.” 

Manicamp raised himself up with a sigh, and leaning on his left elbow. 
he, in his best hand, traced the following lines :— 


“ An order for a place of maid of honour to Madame, which M. le 
Comte de Guiche will take upon him to obtain at sight. 
‘““DE MANICAMP.” 


This painful task accomplished, he laid himself down in bed again. 

“ Well !” asked Malicorne, “ what does this mean ?” 

“That means that if you are in a hurry to have the letter from the 
Comte de Guiche, for Monsieur, I have won my wager.” 

* How the devil is that ?” 

“ That is transparent enough, I think ; you take that paper.” 

eyenr: 

*‘ And you set out instead of me.” mae 3 ve er 

‘“‘You put your horses to their best speed.” “Good !” 

“In six hours you will be at Etampes ; in seven hours you have the 
letter from the comte, and I shall have won my wager without s‘irring 
from my bed, which szits me and you too, at the same time, I am very 
sure.” 

‘“* Decidedly, Manicamp, you are a great man.” 

“ Flein / I know that.” 

“TJ am to start then for Etampes ?? ——“ Directly.” 

“Tam to go to the Comte de Guiche with this order?” 

“ He will give you a similar one for Monsieur.” 

* Monsieur will approve ?” “Instantly.” 

‘And I shall have my brevet ?” 

“You will.” “Ah!” 

“Well, I hope I behave genteelly ?” 

“ Adorably.”-—“ Thank you.” 

‘You do as you please, then, with the Comte de Guiche, Malicorne ?” 

“Except making money of him—everything.” 

“ Diable/ the exception is annoying ; but then, if instead of asking him 
for money, you were to ask——” | 

What ?”?——“ Something important.” 

“What do you call important ?” 

7 it Well suppose one of your friends asked you to render him a ser- 

“T would not render it to him,” 


MANICAMP AND MALICORNE, 359 


“ Selfish fellow !” 
“ Or at least I would ask him what service he would render me in ex- 


change.” 
“ Ah! that, perhaps, is fair. Well, that friend speaks to you.” 
“ What, you, Malicorne !”——-“ Yes ; it is I.” 


“Ah! ah! you are rich then ?”——“ I have still fifty pistoles left.” 
“Exactly the sum I want. Where are those fifty pistoles ?” 
“ Here,” said Malicorne, slapping his pocket. 
* Then speak, my friend ; what do you want ?” 
Malicorne took up the pen, ink, and paper again, and presented them 
allto Manicamp. “ Write !” said he.——“ Dictate !” 
“ An order for a place in the household of Monsieur.” 
“Oh !” said Manicamp, laying down the pen, “a place in the household 
of Monsieur for fifty pistoles ?” 
“You mistook me, my friend ; you did not hear plainly.” 
¢ “What did you say, then ?”>——“I said five hundred.” 
/ ‘And the five hundred ?>——“ Here they are.” 
| Manicamp devoured the rouleau with his eyes ; but this time Malicorne 
-- ‘eld it at a distance. 
fEh ! what do you say to that? Five hundred pistoles.” 
i ‘I say it is for nothing, my friend,” said Manicamp, taking up the pen 
zjain, “and you will wear out my credit. Dictate.” 
, \Malicorne continued ; 
' ‘Which my friend the Comte de Guiche will obtain for my friend Mali- 
corne.” 
“That’s it,” said Manicamp. 
“ Pardon me, you have forgotten to sign.” 
“‘ Ah ! that is true.—The five hundred pistoles ?” 
“Here are two hundred and fifty of them.” 
‘And the other two hundred and fifty ?” 
“When I shall be in possession of my place.” 
Manicamp made a face. 
“Tn that case give me the recommendation back again.” 
“ What to do ??>——“ To add two words to it.” 
“Two words ??—“ Yes ; two words only.” 
“What are they ?>——“ In haste.” 
Malicorne returned the recommendation : Manicamp added the words, 
“Good!” said Malicorne, taking back the paper. 
Manicamp began to count the pistoles. 
“There want twenty,” said he.——“ How so ?” 
“The twenty I have won.”—-—“ In what way ?” 
“ By laying that you would have the letter from the Comte de Guiche in 
eight hours.” 
“ Ah ! that’s fair ;” and he gave him the twenty pistoles. 
Manicamp began to take up his gold by handfuls, and pour it down in 
cascades upon his bed. 
“This second place,” murmured Malicorne, whilst drying his paper, 
Lowa at the first glance, appears to cost me more than the first, 
ut——” 
He stopped, took up the pen in his turn, and wrote to Montalais ; 


* MADEMOISELLE,—Announce to your friend that her commission will 
not be long before it arrives ; I am setting out to get it signed; that will 
be twenty-eight leagues I shall have gone for the love of you,” 


[ 

360 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, | 
Then with his demon’s smile, taking up the interrupted sentence :— 
“This place,” said he, “at the first glance, appears to cost more than tnd 
‘first ;. but—the benefit will be, I hope, in proportion with the expense, and 
Mademoiselle de la Valliére will bring me back more than Mademoiselle 


de Monialais, or else—or ‘else my name‘is not Malicorne. Farewell, 
Manicamp ;” and he left the room. 


ee 


CHAPTER LOX XT, 
THE COURTYARD OF THE HOTEL GRAMMONT. 


ON Malicorne’s arrival at Orleans, he was informed that the Comte de 
Guiche had just set out for Paris. Malicorne rested himself for a couple 
of hours, and then prepared to continue his journey. He reached Paris 
during the night, and alighted at a small hotel, where, in his previous 
journeys to the capital, he had been accustomed to put up, and at eight 
o'clock the next morning he presented himself at the Héotel Grammo 
Malicorne arrived just in time, for the Comte de Guiche was on the poi 
of taking leave of Monsieur before setting out for Havre, where the 
cipal members ef the French nobility had gone to await Madame’s arr 
from England. Malicorne pronounced the name of Manicamp, and \ 
immediately admitted. He found the Comte de Guiche in the courtys| fa 
of the Hotel Grammont, inspecting his horses, which his trainers and 
equerries were passing in review before him. The count, in the presence 
of his tradespeople and of his servants, was engaged in praising or blam- 
ing, as the case seemed to deserve, the appointments, horses, and harness 
which were being submitted to him: when, in the midst of this important 
occupation, the name of Manicamp was announced. 

“ Manicamp !” he exclaimed; “et him enter by all means.” And he 
advanced a few steps towards the door. 

Malicorne slipped through the half-open door, and, looking at the Comte 
de Guiche, who was surprised to see a face which he did not recognise, 
instead of the one he expected, said, ‘‘ Forgive me, monsieur le comte, but 
I believe a mistake has been made. M. Manicamp himself was announced 
to you, instead of which it is only an envoy from him.” 

* Ah !” exclaimed De Guiche, coldly ; “‘and what do you bring me ?” 

“A letter, monsieur le comte.” Malicorne handed him the first docu- 
ment, and narrowly watched the comte’s face, who, as he read it, began to 
laug h. 

e What !” Peas claimed, “another maid of honour? Are all the maids 
of honour in France, then, under his protection?” Malicorne bowed. 
“Why does he not come himself?” he inquired, 

“He is confined to his bed.” 

“The deuce! he has no money, then, I suppose,” said De Guiche, 
shrugging his shoulders. ‘ What does he do with his money ?” 

Malicorne made a movement, to indicate that upon this subject he was 
as ignorant as the comte himself. “ Why does he not make use of his 
credit, then >”? continued De Guiche. i 

“ With regard to that, I think——” JZ 


“What 2” 

re That Manicamp has credit with no one but yourself, monsieur ie 
comte.” 

“ He will not be at Havre, then? ?’? Whereupon Malicorne made ancther 
movement, 


THE COURTYARD OF THE HOTEL GRAMMONT. 361 


“ But every one will be there.” 

“T trust, monsieur le comte, that he will not neglect so excellent an 
opportunity.” ' 

* He should be at Paris by this time.” 

“ He will take the direct road there, to make up for lost time.” 

‘Where is he now ?”>—-—“ At Orleans.” 

“ Monsieur,” said De Guiche, “you seem to me a man of very good 
taste.” 

Malicorne wore Manicamp’s clothes. He bowed in return, saying, 
“You do me a very great honour, monsieur le comte.” 

“Whom have I the pleasure of addressing ?” 

“My name is Malicorne, monsieur.” 

“M. de Malicorne, what do you think of these pistol-holsters ?” 

Malicorne was a man of great readiness, and immediately understood 
the position of affairs. Besides the “de” which had been prefixed to his 
name, raised him to the rank of the person with whom he was conversing. 
He looked at the holsters with the air of a connoisseur, and said, without 
hesitation, “‘ Somewhat heavy, monsieur.” 

* You see,” said De Guiche to the saddler, “this gentleman, who under- 
stands these matters well, thinks the holsters heavy, a complaint I had 
already made.” ‘The saddler was full of excuses. 

/ “What do you think,” asked De Guiche, “ of this horse, which I have 
, just purchased ?” 

“Yo look at it, it seems perfect, monsieur le comte ; but I must mount 
it before I give you my opinion.” 

“To so, M. de Malicorne, and ride him round the court two or three 
times.” 

The courtyard of the hotel was so arranged, that whenever there was 
any occasion for it, it could be used asa riding-school. Malicorne, with 
perfect ease, arranged the bridle and snaffle-reins, placed his left hand on 
the horse’s mane, and, with his foot in the stirrup, raised himself and 
seated himself in the saddle. At first he made the horse walk the whole 
circuit of the courtyard at a foot-pace ; next at a trot; lastly at a gallop. 
He then drew up close to the count, dismounted, and threw the bridle to 
a groom standing by. “ Well,” said the comte, “ what do you think of it, 
M. de Malicorne ?” 

“This horse, monsieur le comte, is of the Mecklenburg breed. In look- 
ing whether the bit suited his mouth, I saw that he was rising seven, the 
very age when the training of a horse intended for a charger should com- 
mence. The fore-hand is light. A horse which holds his head high, it is 
said, never tires his riders hand. The withers are rather low. The 
drooping of the hind-quarters would almost make me doubt the purity of 
its German breed, and I think there is English blood in him. He stands’ 
well on his legs, but he trots high, and may cut himself, which requires, 
attention to be paid to his shoeing. He is tractable ; and as I made him 
turn round and change his feet, I found him quick and ready in doing so.” 

“Well said, M. de Malicorne,” exclaimed the comte; “you are a Judge 
of horses, I perceive ;” then, turning towards him again, he continued: 
“You are most becomingly dressed, M. de Malicorne. ‘That is not a pro- 
vincial cut, I presume. Such a style of dress is not to be met with at 
Tours or Orleans.” 

“ No, monsieur le comte ; my clothes were made at Paris.” 

“ There is no doubt of that. But let us resume our own affair. Mani- 
camp wishes, for the appointment of a second maid of honour,” 


362 “THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. | 


“ You perceive what he has written, monsieur le comte.” 

“ For whom was the first appointment : ” 

Malicorne felt the colour rise in his face, as he answered hurriedly, “A 
charming maid of honour, Mademoiselle de Montalais.” 

Ah, ah ! you are acquainted with her ?” 

“We are affianced, or nearly so.’ : 

“That is quite another thing, then—a thousand compliments,” ex- 
claimed De Guiche, upon whose lips a courtier’s jest was already flitting, 
but to whom the word “ affianced,” addressed by Malicorne with respect 
to Mademoiselle de Montalais, recalled the respect due to women. 

“And for whom is the second appointment destined ?” asked De Guiche ; 
“is it for any one to whom Manicamp may happen to be affianced ? 
In that case, I pity her, poor girl! for she will have a sad fellow for a 
husband in him.” 

“No, monsieur le comte : the second appointment is for Mademoiselle 
la Baume le Blanc de la Valliére.” 

“ Unknown,” said De Guiche. 

“Unknown? yes, monsieur,” said Malicorne, smiling in his turn. 

“Very good. I will speak to monsieur about it. By the bye, she 1 4 of 
gentle birth ?” 

. She belongs to a very good family, and is maid of honour to Me 
dame.” 

“That’s well. Will you accompany me to Monsieur ?” ay, 

“Most certainly, if I may be permitted the honour.” 

“‘ Have you your carriage ?” 

“No; I came here on horseback.” 

“Dressed as you are ?” 

“No, monsieur ; I posted from Orleans, and I changed my travelling 
suit for the one I have on, in order to present myself to you.” 

“True, you already told me you had come from Orleans; saying 
which he crumpled Manicamp’s letter in his hand, and thrust it in his 

ocket. 
fe: I beg your pardon,” said Malicorne timidly: “but I do not think you 
have read all.” 

“Not read all, do you say ?” 

“No; there were two letters in the same envelope.” 

“Oh, oh! are you sure?”——“ Quite sure.” 

“Let us look then,” said the comte, as he opened the letter again. 

“Ah! you are right,” he said, opening the paper which he had not yet 
read. 

“T suspected it,” he continued—“ another application for an appoint- 
-ment under Monsieur. This Manicamp is a complete gulf—he is carrying 
on a trade in it.” 

, “No, monsieur le comte ; he wishes to make a present of it.” 
» “To whom !” 
“To myself, monsieur.” 

“Why did you not say so at once, my dear M. Mativaisecopnas Y 

““ Malicorne, monsieur le comte.” 

“Forgive me ; it is the Latin which bothers me—that terrible habit of 
etymologies. Why the deuce are young men of family taught Latin? 
Mala and mauvatse—you understand it is the same thing. You will for- 
give me, I trust, M. de Malicorne.” 

“Your kindness affects me much, monsieur ; but it is a reason why I 
should make you acquainted with one circumstance without any delay.” 


THE COURTYARD OF THE HOTEL GRAMMONT. 363 


What is it ?” 

“That I was not born a gentleman. I am not without courage, and 
not altogether deficient in ability ; but my name is Malicorne simply.” 

“You appear to me, monsieur,” exclaimed the comte, looking at,the 
astute face of his companion, “to be a most agreeable man. Your 

face pleases me, M. Malicorne ; and you must possess some indisput- 
ably excellent qualities to have pleased that egotistical Manicamp, Be 
candid, and tell me whether you are not some saint descended upon the 
earth.” 

“ Why so?” 

“For the simple reason that he makes you a present of anything. Did 
you not say that he intended to make you a present of some appoint 
ment in the king’s household ?” 

“T beg your pardon, comte; but if I succeed in obtaining the ap- 
pointment, you, and not he, will have bestowed it on me.” 

.“ Besides he will not have given it to you for nothing, I suppose. Stay, 
; have it ;—there is a Malicorne at Orleans, who lends money to the 
ince.” 
think that must be my father, monsieur.” 

‘ah! the prince has the father, and that terrible devourer of a Mani- 
“hoP has the son. Take care, monsieur; I know him. He will fleece 
} sq completely.” 

« The only difference is, that I lend without interest,” said Malicorne, 
smiling. 

“‘T was correct in saying you were either a saint, or very much resembled 
one. M. Malicorne, you shall have the post you want, or I will forfeit my 
name.’ 

“ Ah! monsieur le comte, what a debt of gratitude shall I not owe 
you!” said Malicorne, transported. 

“Tet us go to the prince, my dear M. Malicorne.” And De Guiche 
proceeded towards the door, desiring Malicorne to follow him. At the 
very rnoment they were about to cross the threshold, a young man ap- 
peared on the other side. He was from twenty-four to twenty-five years 
of age, of pale complexion, bright eyes, and brown hair and eyebrows. 
“ Good day,” he said, suddenly, almost pushing De Guiche back into the 
courtyard again. 

“Ts that you De Wardes ?—What! and booted, spurred, and whip in 
hand, too ?” 

“The most befitting costume for a man about to set off for Havre. 
There will be no one left in Paris to-morrow.” And hereupon he saluted 
Malicorne with great ceremony, whose handsome dress gave him the ap- 
pearance of a prince in rank. 

““M. Malicorne,” said De Guiche to his friend. De Wardes bowed. 

“M. de Wardes,” said De Guiche to Malicorne, who bowed in re- 
turn. “By the bye, De Wardes,” continued De Guiche, “you who are 
so well acquainted with these matters, can you tell us, probably, what 
apaeE ments are still vacant at the court ; or rather in the prince’s house- 
hold ?” 

“Tn the prince’s household,” said De Wardes, looking up with an air of 
consideration, “let me see—the appointment of the master of the horse 
is vacant, I believe.” 

“Oh,” said Malicorne, “there is no question of such a post as that, 
monsieur ; my ambition is not nearly so exalted.” 

De Wardes had a more penetrating observation than De Guiche, and 


I 


364 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


understood Malicorne immediately. “The fact is,” he said, looking at 
him from head to foot, ‘‘a man must be either a duke or a peer to fill that 
Ost." 

“ All I solicit,” said Malicorne, “is a very humble appointment ; I am 
of little importance, and I do not rank myself above my position.” 

“M. Malicorne, whom you see here,” said De Guiche to De Wardes, “is 
a very excellent fellow, whose only misfortune is that of not being of 
gentle birth. As far as I am concerned, you know, I attach little value to 
those who have gentle birth alone to boast of.” 

“ Assuredly,” said De Wardes ; “ but will you allow me to remark, my 
dear comte, that, without rank of some sort, one can hardly hope to belong 
to his royal highness’ s household.” 

“You are right, ” said the comte, “the etiquette is very strict with re- 
gard to such matters. The deuce | we never thought of that.” 

“ Alas! a sad misfortune for me, monsieur le comte,” said Malicorne, 
changing colour slightly. 

“Yet not without remedy, I hope,” returned De Guiche. 

“ The remedy is found easily enough,” exclaimed De Wardes; “ yo 
can be created a gentleman. His eminence the Cardinal Mazarin dj 
nothing else from morning till night.” 

“ Hush, hush, De Wardes,” said the comte ; “.no jests of that king 
ill becomes us to turn such matters into eee Letters of nobility, |’ 
true, are purchasable; but that is a sufficient misfortune without ie Le 
nobles themselves laughing at it.” 

“Upon my word, De Guiche, you're quite a puritan, as the English say.” 

At this moment, "the Vicomte de bragelonne was announced by one of 
the servants in the courtyard, in precisely the same manneras he would 
have done in a room. 

“Come here, my dear Raoul. What, you too, booted and spurred ? 
You are setting off then ?” 

Bragelonne approached the group of young men and saluted them with 
that quiet andserious manner which was peculiar to him. His salutation 
was principally addressed to De Wardes, with whom he was unacquainted, 
and whose features, on his perceiving Raoul, had assumed a strange stern- 
ness of expression. ‘“‘I have come, De Guiche, ” he said, ‘‘to ask your 
companionship. We set off for Havre, I presume.” 

“ This is admirable—this is delightful. We shall have a capital j journey. 
M. Malicorne, M. Bragelonne—ah ! M. de Wardes, let me present you.” 
The young men saluted each other in a restrained manner. Their two 
natures seemed, from the very beginning, disposed to take exception to 
each other. De Wardes was pliant, subtle, and full of dissimulation ; 
Raoul was calm, grave, and upright. ‘ Decide between us—between De 
Wardes and myself, Raoul.” 

“Upon what subject ?” 

“Upon the subject of noble birth.” 

“Who can be better informed on that subject than a De Grammont ?” 

“ No compliments ; it is your opinion I ask.” 

* At least inform me of the subject under discussion.” 

“De Wardes asserts that the distribution of titles is abused ; I, on the 
contrary, maintain that a title is useless as regards the man on whom it ise 
bestowed.” 

“ And you are correct,” said Bragelonne, quietly. 

‘But, monsieur le vicomte, ” interrupted De Wardes. with a kind of 

obstinacy, “T affirm that it is I who am correct.” 4 


i 


THE COURTYARD OF THE HOTEL GRAMMONT. 463 


* What was your opinion, monsieur ?” 

“I was saying that everything is done in France at the present moment, 
to humiliate men of family.” 

* And by whom ?” . 

“By the king himself. He surrounds himself with people who éannot 
show four quarterings.” 

“Nonsense,” said De Guiche ; “where could you possibly have seen 

that, De Waides ?” 

“One example will suffice,” he returned, directing his look fully upon 
Raoul. 

*¢ State it, then.” 

“Do you know who has just been nominated captain-general of the 
musketeers—an appointment more valuable than a peerage ; for it gives 
precedence over all the maréchals of France.” 

Raoul’s colour mounted in his face ; for he saw the object De Wardes 

had in view. “No; who has been appointed? In any case it must have 
been very recently, for the appointment was vacant eight days ago; a 
roof of which is, that the king refused Monsieur, who solicited the post 
ar one of his grotégés.” 
“Well, the king refused it to Monsieur’s Zrotéeé, in order to bestowit upon 
e Chevalier d’Artagnan, a younger brother of some Gascon family, 
‘ho has been trailing his sword in the antechambers during the last thirty 
years.” 

“\Forgive me if I interrupt you,” said Raoul, darting a glance full of 
severity at De Wardes: “but you give me the impression of being un- 
acquainted with the gentleman of whom you are speaking.” 

“T unacquainted with M. d’Artagnan? Can you tell me, monsieur, who 
does know him ?” 

“Those who do know him, monsieur,” replied Raoul, with still greater 
calmness and sternness of manner, “are in the habit of saying, that if he 
is not as good a gentleman as the king—which is not his fault—he is the 
equal of all the kings of the earth in courage and loyalty. Such is my 
opinion, monsieur ; and I thank heaven I have known M. d’Artagnan 
from my birth.” 

De Wardes was about to reply, when De Guiche interrupted him. 


CHAPTER LXXXII. 
THE PORTRAIT OF MADAME. 


THE discussion was becoming full of bitterness. De Guiche perfectly 
understood the whole matter, for there was in Bragelonne’s look some- 
thing instinctively hostile, while in that of De Wardes, there was something 
like a determination to offend. Without inquiring into the different feelings 
which actuated his two friends, De Guiche resolved to ward off the blow 
which he felt was on the point of being dealt by one of them, and per- 
haps by both. ‘“ Gentlemen,” he said, “‘ we must take our leave of each 
other, I must pay a visit to Monsieur. You, De Wardes, will accompany 
me to the Louvre, and you, Raoul, will remain here master of the house ; 
and as all that is done here is under your advice, you will bestow the last 
glance upon my preparations for departure.” 

Raoul, with the air of one who neither seeks nor fears a quarrel, bowed 
his head in token of assent, and seated himself upon a bench in the sun. 
“That is well,” said De Guiche, “remain where you are, Raoul, and tell 


Aree oo we ime - 


366 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE: 


them to show you the two horses I have just purchased: you will giv 
me your opinion, for I only bought them on condition that you ratifie 
the purchase. By the bye, I have to beg your pardon for having omitted 
to inquire after the Comte de la Fere.” While pronouncing these latter\ 
words, he closely observed De Wardes, in order to perceive what effect 
the name of Raoul’s father would produce upon him. “I thank you,” 
answered the young man, “the count is very well.” A gleam of deep hatred 
passed into De Wardes’ eyes. De Guiche, who appeared not to notice 
the foreboding expression, went up to Raoul, and, grasping him by the 
hand, said, ‘ It is agreed, then, Bragelonne, is it not, that you will rejoin 
us in the courtyard of the Palais Royal?” He then signed to De Wardes 
to follow him, who had been engaged in balancing himself, first on one 
foot, then on the other. “ We are going,” said he ; “ come, M. Malicorne.” 
This name made Raoul start ; for it seemed that he had already heard it 
pronounced before, but he could not remember on what occasion. While 
trying to do so, half-dreamingly, yet half irritated at his conversation with De 
Wardes, the three young men were on their way towards the Palais Royal, 
where Monsieur was residing. Malicorne learned two things : the first, 
that the young men had something to say to each other ; and the second 
that he ought not to walk in the same line with them ; and therefore 
walked behind. “Are you mad?” said De Guiche to his companion, 
soon as they had left the Hotel de Grammont ; “you attack M. D’Artagunai 
and that, too, before Raoul.” . 

“Well,” said De Wardes, “ what then 2” 

“What do you mean by ‘what then?” 

“ Certainly, is there any prohibition against attacking M. d’Artagnan ” 

“But you know very well that M. d’Artagnan was one of those cele- 
brated and terrible four men who were called the musketeers.” 

“That may be ; but I donot perceive why, on that account, I should be 
forbidden to hate M. d’Artagnan.” 

“‘' What cause has he given you ?” 

* Me! personally, none.” 

“Why hate him, therefore ?” 

“Ask my dead father that question.” 

“Really, my dear De Wardes, you surprise me. M. d’Artagnan is not 
one to leave unsettled any exmzty he may have to arrange, without com- 
pletely clearing his account. Your father, I have heard, on his side, carried 
matters with a high hand. Moreover, there are no enmities.so bitter 
which cannot be washed away by blood, by a good sword-thrust loyally 
given. 

“Listen to me, my dear De Guiche: this inveterate dislike existed be- 
tween my father and M. d’Artagnan, and when I was quite a child he 
acquainted me with the reason for it; and, as forming part of my inherit- 
ance, I regard it as a particular legacy bestowed upon me.” 

And does this hatred concern M. d’Artagnan alone ?” 

‘As for that, M.d’Artagnan was too intimately associated with his three 
friends, that some portion of the full measure of my hatred for him should 
not fall to their lot; and that hatred is of such a nature that, whenever 
the opportunity occurs, they shall have no occasion to complain of their 
portion.” 

_De Guiche had kept his eyes fixed on De Wardes, and shuddered at the 
bitter manner in which the young man smiled. Something like a presen- 
timent flashed across his mind. He knew that the time had passed away 
for grands coups entre gentilshommes, but that the feeling of hatred trea- 


THE PORTRAIT OF MADAME. 367 


sured up in the mind, instead of being diffused abroad, was still hatred all 
the same ; that a smile was sometimes as full of meaning as a threat; 
and, in a word, that, to the fathers who had hated with their hearts and 
fought with their arms, would now succeed the sons, who themselves, also, 
would indeed hate with their hearts, but would no longer encounter their 

i enemies, save by the means of intrigue or treachery. As, therefore, it cer- 
tainly was not Raoul whom he could suspect either of intrigue or treachery, 
it was on Raoul’s account that De Guiche trembled. However, while these 
gloomy forebodings cast a shade of anxiety over De Guiche’s countenance, 
De Wardes had resumed the entire mastery over himself. 

“ At all events,” he observed, “I have no personal ill-will towards M.de 
Bragelonne ; I do not know him even.” 

‘In any case,” said De Guiche, with a certain amount of severity in his 
tone of voice, “do not forget one circumstance—that Raoul is my most 
intimate friend ;” a remark at which De Wardes bowed. 

The conversation terminated there, although De Guiche tried his utmost 
to draw out his secret from him ; but doubtless De Wardes had determined 
to say nothing further, and he remained impenetrable. De Guiche there- 
fore promised himself a more satisfactory result with Raoul. In the 
‘meantime they had reached the Palais Royal, which was surrounded by 
a crowd of lookers-on. The household belonging to Monsieur awaited 

his orders to mount their horses, in order to form part of the escort 
of the ambassadors, to whom had been intrusted the care of bringing 
the young princess to Paris. The brilliant display of horses, arms, 
and rich liveries, afforded some compensation in those times, thanks to 
the kindly feelings of the people, and to the traditions of deep devotion to 
their sovereigns, for the enormous expenses charged upon the taxes. 
Mazarin had said, “ Let them sing, provided they pay ;” while Louis XIV.’s 
remark was, “ Let them look.” Sight had replaced the voice: the people 
could still look, but they could no longer sing. De Guiche left De Wardes 
and Malicorne at the bottom of the grand staircase, while he himself, who 
shared the favour and good graces of Monsieur with the Chevalier de Lor- 
raine, whoalways smiledat him most affectionately, while he could not endure 
him, went straight to the prince’s apartments, whom he found engaged in 
admiring himself in the glass, and in putting rouge on his face. Ina corner 
of the cabinet the Chevalier de Lorraine was extended full length upon 
some cushions, having just had his long hair curled, with which he was 
playing in the same mannera woman would have done. The prince turned 
round as the count entered, and, perceiving who it was, said : 

“Ah! is that you, Guiche? Come here and tell me the truth.” 

* You know, my lord, it is one of my defects to speak the truth.” 

You will hardly believe, De Guiche, how that wicked chevalier has 
annoyed me.” 

The chevalier shrugged his shoulders. 

“Well, he pretends,” continued the prince, “that Mdlle. Henrietta is 
better looking as a woman than I am as a man.” 

“Do not forget, my lord,” said De Guiche, frowning slightly, “ you re- 
quire me to speak the truth.”———“ Certainly,’ said the prince, tremblingly. 

“ Well, and I shall tell it you.” 

“Do not be in a hurry, Guiche !” exclaimed the prince ; “ you have 
plenty of time. Look at me attentively, and try and recollect Madame. 
Besides, her portrait is there ; look at it.” And he held out to him a 
miniature of the finest possible execution. De Guiche took it, and looked 
at it for a long time attentively. 


wn 


368 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“Upon my honour, my lord, this is indeed a most lovely face.” 

“But look at me, count, look at me,” said the prince, endeavouring to| 
direct upon himself the attention of the count, who was completely absorbed 
in contemplation of the portrait. 

“It is wonderful,” murmured Guiche. 

“Really, one would almost imagine you had never seen this girl 
before.” 

“Tt is true, my lord, I have seen her, but it is five years ago; there is 
a great difference between a child of twelve years old and a young girl of 
seventeen.” 

“ Well, what is your opinion ?” 

“ My opinion is that the portrait must be flattered, my lord.” 

“ Of that,” said the prince triumphantly, “there can be no doubt ; but! 
let us suppose that it is not flattered, what would your opinion be ?” 

“My lord, your highness is exceedingly happy to have so charming a 
bride.” 

“Very well, that is your opinion of her, but of me ?” 

“ My opinion, my lord, is, that you are far too handsome for a man.” 

The Chevalier de Lorraine burst out laughing. The prince understood 
how severe towards himself this opinion of the Comte de Guiche was, and 
he looked somewhat displeased, saying, “‘ My friends are not over indul-| 
gent.” De Guiche looked at the portrait again, and, after lengthened con- 
templation, returned it with apparent unwillingness, saying, “‘ Most de- 
cidedly, my lord, I should rather prefer to look ten times at your highness, 
than to look at Madame once again.” It seemed as if the chevalier had 
detected some mystery in these words, which were incomprehensible tc 
the prince, for he exclaimed : “Very well, get married yourself.” Mon- 
sieur continued rouging himself, and when he had finished, looked at the 
portrait again, once more turned to admire himself in the glass, and smiled 
and no doubt was satisfied with the comparison. “ You are very kind tc 
have come,” he said to Guiche, “1 feared you would leave without bidding 


me adieu.” 
“Your highness knows me too well to believe me capable of so great < 


disrespect.” 

“ Besides, I suppose you have something to ask from me before leavin; 
Paris ?” 

“Your highness has indeed guessed correctly, for | have a request t¢ 
make,.”--—“ Very good, what is it ?” 

The Chevalier de Lorraine immediately displayed the greatest attention 
for he regarded every favour conferred upon another as a robbery com 
mitted against himself. And, as Guiche hesitated, the prince said: “I 
it be money, nothing could be more fortunate, for I am in funds; th 
surintendant of the finances has sent me 500,000 pistoles.” 

“TJ thank your highness ; but it is not an affair of money.” 

“What is it then? ‘Tell me.” 

“The appointment of a maid of honour.” 

“Oh! oh! Guiche, what a protector you have become of young ladies, 
said the prince, “you never speak of any one else now.” 

‘The Chevalier de Lorraine smiled, for he knew very well that nothin 
displeased the prince more than to show any interest in ladies. “ My lord, 
said the comte, “it isnot I who am directly interested in the lady of who 
I have just spoken ; I am acting on behalf of one of my friends.” 

“Ah! that is different ; what is the name of the young lady in whor 


your friend is interested *” 


THE PORTRAIT OF MADAME, 369 


_ Madlile. dela Baume le Blane de la Vallitre ; she is already maid of 
honour to the dowager princess.” 

“Why, she is lame,” said the Chevalier de Lorraine, stretching himself 

| on his cushions, 

“Lame,” repeated the prince, “and Madame to have her constantly 

_ before her eyes? Most certainly not, it may be dangerous for her when 
- in an interesting condition.” The Chevalier de Lorraine burst out 
laughing. : 

“Chevalier,” said Guiche, “your conduct is ungenerous; while I am 
soliciting a favour, you do me all the mischief you can.” 

“Forgive me, comte,” said the Chevalier de Lorraine, somewhat uneasy 
at the tone in which Guiche had made his remark, “but I had no inten- 
tion of doing so, and I begin to believe that I have mistaken one young 
lady for another.” 

“ There is no doubt of it, monsieur ; and I do not hesitate to declare 
that such is the case.” 

“Do you attach much importance to it, Guiche ?” inquired the prince. 

*T do, my lord.” 

“Well, you shall have it ; but ask me for no more appointments, for 

“¥here are none to give away.” 

*} “Ah !” exclaimed the chevalier, “ mid-day already, that is the hour fixed 
or the departure.” 

4 “You dismiss me, monsieur ?” inquired Guiche. 

“Really, comte, you treat me very ill to-day,” replied the chevalier. 

“For heaven’s sake, comte, for heaven’s sake, chevalier,” said Monsieur, 
“do you not see how you are distressing me.” 

“My signature ?” said Guiche. 

“Take a blank appointment from that drawer, and give it to me.” 
Guiche handed the prince the document indicated, and at the same time 
presented him with a pen already dipped in ink; whereupon the prince 
signed. “Here,” he said, returning him the appointment, “but I give it 
on one condition,” 

“Name it.” 

“That you will make friends with the chevalier.” 

- “Willingly,” said Guiche. And he held out his hand to the chevalier 
with an indifference amounting to contempt. 

| “ Adieu, comte,” said the chevalier, without seeming in any way to have 
noticed the curmte’s slight ; “adieu, and bring ws back a princess who will 
not talk with her own portrait too much.” 

“Yes, set off and lose no time. By the bye, who accompany you ?” 

“ Bragelonne and De Wardes.” 

“Both excellent and fearless companions.” 

“Too fearless,” said the chevalier; “endeavour to bring them both 
back, comte.” : 

“Pad heart, bad heart,” murmured De Guiche ; “he scents mischief 
‘everywhere, and sooner than anything else.” And taking leave of the 
prince, he quitted the apartment. As soon as he reached the vestibule, he 
waved in the air the paper which the prince had signed. Malicorne 
hurried forward, and received it trembling with delight. When, however, 
he held it in his hand, Guiche observed that he still awaited something 
\further. 

“Patience, monsieur,” he said ; “the Chevalier de Lorraine was there, 

nd I feared an utter failure if I asked too much at once. Wait until I 
eturn. Adieu.” 
24 


376 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“¢ Adieu, monsieur le comte ; a thousand thanks,” said Malicorne. 

“Send Manicamp to me. By the way, monsieur, is it true that Mdlle. 
de la Valliére is lame?” Ashe said this, a horse drew up behind him, 
and, on turning round, he noticed that Bragelonne, who had just at that 
moment entered the court-yard, turned suddenly pale. The poor lover had 
heard the remark, which, however, was not the case with Malicorne, for 
he was already beyond the reach of the comte’s voice. 

“ Why is Louise’s name spoken of her ?” said Raoul to himself; “oh | 
let not De Wardes, who stands smiling yonder, ev n say a word about he! 
in my presence.” 

“ Now, gentlemen,” exclaimed the Comte de Guiche, “ prepare to start.’ 

At this moment, the prince, who had completed his toilette, appearec 
at the window, and was immediately saluted by the acclamations of all 
who composed the escort, and ten minutes afterwards, banners, scarfi 
and feathers were fluttering and waving in the air, as the cavalca 
galloped away, 


CHAPTER LXXAM ae 
HAVRE. 


Tus brilliant and animated company, the members of which were in 
spired by various feelings, arrived at Havre four days after their departure 
from Paris. It was about five o’clock in the afternoon, and no intelligence; 
had yet been received of Madame. They were soon engaged in quest o 
apartments ; but the greatest confusion immediately ensued among ths 
masters, and violent quarrels among their attendants. In the midst 
this disorder, the Comte de G iche fancied he recognised Manicamp. 
was, indeed, Manicamp himself; but as Malicorne had taken possessio 
of his very best costume, he had not been able to get any other than a su 
of violet velvet, trimmed with silver. Guiche recognised him as much b 
his dress as by his features, for he had very frequently seen Manicamy i 
this violet suit, which was his last resource. Manicamp presented himskl 
to the comte under an arch of torches, which set fire to, rather than illum} 
nated, the gate by which Havre is entered, and which is situated close t 
the tower of Francis I. The comte, remarking the woe-begone expressi 
—— . 9 Wranicamp’s face, cold not resist laughing. “ Well, my poox Man 
camp,” he exclaimed, “ how violet ya) ok, “ aie syou Tn mourning ?” 

“Yes,” replied Manicamp ; I am in mourning.” 

“For whom, or for what ?” 

“ For my blue-and-gold suit, which has disappeared, and in the place « 
which I could find nothing but this ; and I was even obliged to economis 
from compulsion, in order to get possession of it.” ; 

‘Indeed: 

“Tt is singular you should be astonished at that, since you leave n 
without any money.” 

“ At all events, here you are, and that is the principal thing.” 

“ By the most horrible roads,” 

“Where are you lodging ?” 

“ Lodging ?” 

6¢ Yes.” 

“1 am not lodging anywhere.” 

De Guiche began to laugh, ‘“ Well,” said he, “ where do you int¢ 
to lodge ?” 


HAVRE, 371 


“Tn the same place you do.” 

* But I don’t know.” 

“What do you mean, by saying you don’t know ?” 

“Certainly, how is it likely I should know where I should stay ?” 

“ Have you not retained an hotel ?’———“ I ?” 

“Yes, you or the prince.” 

“Neither of us has thought of it. Havre is of considerable size, I 
suppose, and provided I can get a stable for a dozen horses, and a suitable 
house in a good quarter——” 

“ Certainly, there are some very excellent houses,” 

“Well, then——” 

“But not for us.” 

“What do you mean by saying not for us ?>—for whom, then ?” 

“For the English, of course.” 

“ For the English ?” 

“Yes ; the houses are all taken.” 

“ By whom ?”?——“ By the Duke of Buckingham,” 

“I beg your pardon!” said Guiche, whose attention this name had 
wakened. 

“Yes, by the Duke of Buckingham. His grace has been preceded by 
courier, who arrived here three days ago, and immediately retained al 
the houses fit for habitation which the town possesses.” 
yy} “Come, come, Manicamp, let us understand each other.” 

\ “Well, what I have told you is clear enough, it seems to me.” 

- “But surely Buckingham does not occupy the whole of Havre ?” 
_ “He certainly does not occupy it, since he has not yet arrived ; but, 
when once disembarked, he will occupy it.” 

“Oh! oh!” 

“It is quite clear you are not acquainted with the English ; they havea 
perfect rage for monopolising everything.” 

“That may be ; but a man who has the whole of one house is satisfied 

with it, and does not require two,” ) 

“Ves, but two men ?” 

“Be it so ; for two men, two houses, or four, or six, or ten, if you like ; 
but there are a hundred houses at Havre,” 

“Yes, and all the hundred are let.” 

“ Impossible !” 

“What an obstinate fellow you are. I tell you Buckingham has hired 
all the houses surrounding the one which the queen-dowager of England 
and the princess her daughter will inhabit.” 

“ He is singular enough, indeed,” said De Wardes, caressing his horse’s 
neck. 

“Such is the case, however, monsieur.” 

“You are quite sure of it, Monsieur de Manicamp ?” and as he put this 
question he looked slily at De Guiche, as though to interrogate him upon 
the degree of confidence to be placed in his friend’s state of mind. During 
this discussion the night had closed in, and the torches, pages, attendants, 
squires, horses, and carriages, blocked up the gate and the open place ; 
the torches were reflected in the channel, which the rising tide was gradu- 

lly filling, while on the other side of the jetty might be noticed groups of 
urious lookers-on, consisting of sailors and townspeople, who seemed 
nxious to miss nothing of the spectacle. Amidst all this hesitation of 
lurpose, Bragelonne, as though a perfect stranger to the scene, remained 
hh his horse somewhat in the rear of Guiche, and watched the rays of 
24—4 


372 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


light reflected in the water, inhaling with rapture the sea-breezes, and 
listening to the waves which noisily broke upon the shore and on the 
beach, das 


hing the spray into the air with a noise which echoed in the 
distance. . “But,” exclai 


med De Guiche, “ what is Buckingham’s motive 
for providing such a supply of lodgings re 
“Yes, yes,” said De Wardes, ‘“ what reason has he?” 
“ A very excellent one” replied Manicamp. 
“You know what it is, then ra “JT fancy I do.” 
“Tell us, then.” ——* Bend your head down towards me.” 
“ What! can it not be said except in secrecy ?” 
“ You shall judge of that yourself.” 
“ Very well.” De Guiche bent down. 
“ Love,” said Manicamp. 
“J do not understand you at rae 
“Say, rather, you cannot understand me yet.” 
“Explain yourself.” 
_ “Very well! it is quite certain, count, that his royal highness will # 
the most unfortunate of husbands.” 
“What do you mean >» The Duke of Buckingham s 
“It is a name of ill-omen to princes of the house of France.” 
“ And so the duke is madly in love with Madame, so the rumour run 
and will have no one approach near her but himself.” 
De Guiche coloured. “ Thank you, thank you,” said he to Manicam 
grasping his hand. Then, recovering himself, added, “‘ Whatever you do, 
Manicamp, be careful that this project of Buckingham’s is not made 
known to any Frenchman here ; for, if so, swords will be unsheathed in 
this country which do not fear the English steel.” 

“But after all,” said Manicamp, “T have had no satisfactory proof 
given me of the love in question, and it may be no more than a mere idle 
fale. | 
_ No, no,” said De Guiche, “it must be the truth »” and, despite his 
command over himself, he clenched his teeth. | 

“Well,” said Manicamp, “ after all, what does it matter to you? Wha 
‘does it matter to me whether the prince is to be what the late king wa 
Buckingham the father for the queen, Buckingham the son for the youn 


rincess.” 
“ Manicamp ! Manicamp 
“Tt is a fact, or, at least, everybody says so.” 
“ Silence !” said the count. 
“ But why silence?” said De Wardes ; “it is a highly creditable ¢ 
cumstance for the French nation. Are not you of my opinion, Monsie, 
de Bragelonne ?” 4 
“To what circumstance do you allude ?” inquired De Bragelonne, w 
an abstracted air. 
“That the English should render homage to the beauty of our que 
and our princesses.” 


“ Forgive me, but I have not been paying attention to what has pas¢¢ 
Py) 


177 . 


and it seems necessary, at the present time, that Buckingham the 
should consecrate, by the devotion of his worship, the beauty of a p 
cess who has French blood in her veins. The fact of having inspire 


HAVRE. 373 


jpassion on the other side of the Channel will henceforth confer a title to 
beauty on its object.” 

“Sir,” replied De Bragelonne, “I do not like to hear such matters 
treated so lightly. Gentlemen as we are should be careful guardians of 
the honour of our queens and our princesses. If we jest at them, what 
| will our servants do ?” 


“How am I to understand that,” said De Wardes, whose ears tingled at 
the remark. . 
“In any way you choose, monsieur,” replied De Bragelonne coldly. 
“ Bragelonne, Bragelonne !” murmured Guiche. 
“M. de Wardes,” exclaimed Manicamp, noticing that the young man 
had spurred his horse close to the side of Raoul. 
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said De Guiche, “do not set such an example 
in public, in the street too. De Wardes, you are wrong.” 
“Wrong ; in what way, may I ask you ?” 
_* You are wrong, monsieur, because you are always speaking ill of some 
ne or something,” replied Raoul, with undisturbed composure. 
4“ Be indulgent, Raoul,” said De Guiche, in an undertone. 
Wy Pray do not think of fighting, gentlemen,” said Manicamp, “ be- 
e you have rested yourselves ; for in that case you will not be able to 
much.” 
{ “ Come,” said De Guiche, “ forward, gentlemen !” and, breaking through 
whe horses and attendants, he cleared the way for himself towards the 
centre of the square, through the crowd, followed by the whole cavalcade. 
A large gateway looking out upon a courtyard was open ; Guiche entered 
the courtyard ; and Bragelonne, De Wardes, Manicamp, and three or four 
other gentlemen followed him. A sort of council of war was held, and 
the means to be employed for saving the dignity of the embassy were 
deliberated upon. Bragelonne was of opinion that the right of priority 
should be respected, while De Wardes suggested that the town should 
be sacked. This latter proposition appeared to Manicamp rather rash, 
he proposing instead that they should first rest themselves. This was 
the wisest thing to do, but, unhappily, to follow his advice, two things only 
were wanting ; namely, a house and beds. De Guiche reflected for awhile, 
and then said aloud, “ Let him who loves me, follow me !” 
“The attendants also?” inquired a page, who had approached the 
group. 
“Every one,” exclaimed the impetuous young man,  Manicamp, 
show us the way to the house destined for her royal highness’s residence.” 
» Without in any way divining the count’s project, his friends followed 
him, accompanied by a crowd of people, whose acclamations and delight 
seemed a happy omen for the success of the project with which they were 


yet unacquainted. The wind was blowing loudly from the harbour, and 
moaning in fitful gusts, 


CHAPTER LXXXIV. 
AT SEA, 


THE following day was somewhat calmer, although the wind still con- 
nued to blow. The sun had, however risen through a bank of reddened 
ouds, tinging with its crimson rays the crests of the black waves. Watch 

Ss impatiently kept from the different look-outs. Towards eleven 
Hock in the morning a ship, with sails full set, was signalled as in view ;. 


\ 


374 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


two others followed at the distance of about half-a knot. They ap- 
proached like arrows shot from the bow of a skilful archer ; and yet the 
sea ran so high that their speed was as nothing compared to the rolling 
of the billows in which the vessels were plunging first in one direction and 
then in another. The English fleet was soon recognised by the lines of 
the ships, and by the colour of their pennants ; the one which had the 
princess on board and carried the admiral’s flag preceded the others. 

The rumour now spread that the princess was arriving. The whole 
French court ran to the harbour, while the quays and jetties were soon 
covered by crowds of people. Two hours afterwards, the other vessels 
had overtaken the flag-ship, and the three, not venturing perhaps to enter 
the narrow entrance of the harbour, cast anchor between Havre and La 
Have. When the manceuvre had been completed, the vessel which bore 
the admiral saluted France by twelve discharges of cannon, which wer 
returned, discharge for discharge, from Fort Francis the First. Immedj 
ately afterwards a hundred boats were launched, —they were covered with 
the richest stuffs, and destined for the conveyance of the different member 
of the French nobility towards the vessels at anchor. But when it wa 
observed that even inside the harbour the boats were tossed to and fr 
and that beyond the jetty the waves rose mountains high, dashing upo 
the shore with a terrible uproar, it will readily be believed that not one 
those frail boats would be able with safety to reach a fourth part of th 
distance between the shore and the vessels at anchor. A pilot-boat, how 
ever, notwithstanding the wind and the sea, was getting ready to leave the 
harbour for the purpose of placing itself at the admiral’s orders. 

De Guiche, who had been looking among the different boats for one 
stronger than the others, which might offer a chance of reaching the Eng- 
lish vessels, perceiving the pilot-boat getting ready to start, said to Raoul: 
“Do you not think, Raoul, that intelligent and vigorous men, as we are, 
ought to be ashamed to retreat before the brute’ strength of wind and 
waves ?” 

“ That is precisely the very reflection I was silently making to myself,” 
replied Bragelonne. ; 

“ Shall we get into that boat, then, and push off? ‘Will you come, De 
Wardes ?” 

“Take care, or you will get drowned,” said Manicamp. 

“ And for no purpose,” said De Wardes, “for, with the wind dead 
against you, as it will be, you will never reach the vessels.” 

“You refuse, then ?” 

“ Assuredly I do ; I would willingly risk and lose my life in an encounte 
against men,” he said, glancing at Bragelonne, “but as to fighting with 
oars against waves, I have no taste for that.” | 

“ And for myself,” said Manicamp, “ even were I to succeed in reaching 
the ships, I should not be indifferent to the loss of the only good dress 
which I have left,—salt water would splash and spoil it.” 

; You, then, refuse also ?”? exclaimed De Guiche. 

“ Decidedly I do ; I beg you to understand that most distinctly.” 

“ But,” exclaimed De Guiche, “look, De Wardes—look, Manicamp— 
look yonder, the princesses are looking at us from the poop of the admiral’s 
vessel.” : 
) “An addititional reason, my dear fellow, why we should not mak 
ourselves ridiculous by taking a bath while they are looking on.” 
‘ “Ts that your last word, Manicamp ?’———“ Yes.” 

/ “And yours, De Wardes ?” ‘a ¥ies2 


AT SEA, 375 


“Then I go alone.” 

“Not so,” said Raoul, “for I shall accompany you; I thought it was 
understood we should do so.” 

The fact is, that Raoul, uninfluenced by any devotion, measuring the 
risk they would run, saw how imminent the danger was, but he willingly 
allowed himself to accept a peril which De Wardes had declined. 

The boat was about to set off when De Guiche called to the pilot. 
“Stay,” said he; ‘‘we want two places in your boat ;” and wrapping five 
or six pistoles in paper, he threw them from the quay into the boat. 

“Tt seems you are not afraid of salt water, young gentlemen.” 

“ We are afraid of nothing,” replied De Guiche. 

“Come along, then.” 

The pilot approached the side of the boat, and the two young men, one 

. after the other, with equal vivacity, jumped into the boat. ‘ Courage, my 
men,” said De Guiche ; “I have twenty pistoles left in this purse, and as 
,500n as we reach the admiral’s vessel they shall be yours.” The sailors 
bent themselves to their oars, and the boat bounded over the crest of the 
gwaves. The interest taken in this hazardous expedition was universal ; 
jhe whole population of Havre hurried towards the jetties, and every look 
vas directed towards the little barque ; at one moment it remained sus- 
‘ended upon the crest of the foaming waves, then suddenly glided down- 
vards towards the bottom of a roaring abyss, where it seemed utterly lost 
within it. At the expiration of an hour’s struggling with the waves, it 
reached the spot where the admiral’s vessel was anchored, and from the 
side of which two boats had already been despatched towards their aid. 
Upon the quarter-deck of the flag-ship, sheltered by a canopy of velvet 
and ermine, which was suspended by stout supports, Madame Henrietta, 
the queen-dowager, and the young princess—with the admiral, the Duke of 
Norfolk, standing beside them,—watched with alarm this slender barque, 
at one moment carried to the heavens, and the next buried beneath the 
waves, and against whose dark sail the noble figures of the two French 
noblemen stood forth in relief like two luminous apparitions. The crew, 
leaning against the bulwarks and clinging to the shrouds, cheered the 
courage of the two daring young men, the skill of the pilot, and the strength 
of the sailors. They were received at the side of the vessel by a shout of 
triumph. The Duke of Norfolk, a handsome young man, from twenty-six 
to twenty-eight years of age, advanced to meet them. De Guiche and 
Bragelonne lightly mounted the ladder on the starboard side, and, con- 
ducted by the Duke of Norfolk, who resumed his place near them, they 
approached to offer their homage to the princesses. Respect, and yet 
more, a certain apprehension, for which he could not account, had hitherto 
restrained the Comte de Guiche from looking at Madame attentively, who, 
however, had observed him immediately, and had asked her mother, “Is 
not that Monsieur in the boat yonder ?? Madame Henrietta, who knew 
Monsieur better than her daughter did, smiled at the mistake her vanity 
had led her into, and had answered, “ No; it is only M. de Guiche, his 
favourite.” The princess, at this reply, had been obliged to check an in- 
stinctive tenderness of feeling which the courage displayed by the count 
had awakened. At the very moment the princess had put this question to 
her mother, De Guiche had, at last, summoned courage to raise his eyes 
towards her, and could compare the original with the portrait he had so 
ately seen. No sooner had he remarked her pale face, her eyes so full of 
nimation, her beautiful nut-brown hair, her expressive lips, and her every 

esture, which, while betokening her royal descent, seemed to thank and 


\ 


a 


376 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


to encourage him at one and the same time, than he was, for a moment, 
so overcome, that, had it not been for Raoul, on whose arm he leant, he 
would have fallen. His friend’s amazed look, and the encouraging gesture 
of the queen, restored Guiche to his self-possession. In a few words he 
explained his mission, explained in what way he had become the envoy of 
his royal highness ; and saluted, according to their rank and the reception 
they gave him, the admiral and several of the English noblemen who were 
grouped around the princesses. 

Raoul was then presented, and was most graciously received; the share 
that the Comte de la Fére had had inthe restoration of Charles II. was 
known to all; and, more than that, it was the comte who had been 
charged with the negotiation of the marriage, by means of which the 
granddaughter of Henry IV. was now returning to France. Raoul spoke 
English perfectly, and constituted himself his friend’s interpreter with the, 
young English noblemen, who were indifferently acquainted with the ) 
French language. At this moment a young man came forward of ex- 
tremely handsome features, and whose dress and arms were remarkablr 
for their extravagance of material. He approached the princesses, w’ 
were engaged in conversation with the Duke of Norfolk, and, in a voix 
which ill concealed his impatience, said, “It is time now to disembark 
your royal highness.” The younger of the princesses rose from her sea? 
at this remark, and was about to take the hand which the young noble! 
man had extended to her, with an eagerness which arose from a variety ont 
motives, when the admiral advanced between them, observing: “A! 
moment, if you please, my lord ; it is not possible for ladies to disembark 
just now, the sea is too rough; it is probable the wind may abate 
towards four o’clock, and the landing will not be effected, therefore, until 
this evening.” 

“ Allow me to observe, my lord,” said Buckingham, with an irritation of 
manner which he did not seek to disguise, “you detain these ladies, and 
you have no right to do so. One of them, unhappily, now belongs to 
France, and you perceive that France claims them by the voice of her 
ambassadors ;” and at the same moment he indicated Raoul and Guiche, 
whom he saluted. 

“T cannot suppose that these gentlemen intend to expose the lives of 
their royal highnesses,” replied the admirai. 

‘““These gentlemen,” retorted Buckingham, “arrived here safely, not- 
withstanding the wind; allow me to believe that the danger will not 
be greater for their royal highnesses when the wind will be in thei 
favour.” . 

“These gentlemen have shown how great their courage is,” said the 
admiral. “ You mayhaveobserved that there was a great numberof persons 
on shore who did not venture to accompany them. _ Moreover, the desire 
which they had to show their respect with the least possible delay to 
Madame and her illustrious mother, induced them to confront the sea, 
which is very tempestuous to-day, even for sailors. These gentlemen, 
however, whom I recommend as an example for my officers to follow, 
can hardly be so for these ladies.” a 

Madame glanced at the Comte de Guiche, and perceived that his fac 
was burning with confusion. This look had escaped Buckingham, who, 
had eyes for nothing but watching Norfolk, of whom he was evidentl; 
very jealous, and seemed anxious to remove the princesses from the dec 
ofa vessel where the admiral reigned supreme. “In that case,” returne 
Buckirgiam, “I appealto Madame herself.” . 


AT SEA. Aes 399 


« And I, my lord,” retorted the admiral, “ I appeal to my own conscience, 
and to my own sense of responsibility. I have undertaken to convey 
Madame safely and soundly to France, and I shall keep my promise.” 

“Vet, sir ” continued Buckingham. 

_.“ My lord, permit me to remind you that I command here.” 

© Are you aware what you are saying, my lord?” replied Buckingham, 
haughtily. 

_“ Perfectly so ; I therefore repeat it : I alone command here, all yield 
obedience to me; the sea and the winds, the ships and men too.” This 
remark was made in a dignified, and authoritative manner. Raoul observed 
its effect upon Buckingham, who trembled from head to foot, and leaned 
against one of the poles of the tent to prevent himself falling ; his eyes 
became suffused with blood, and the hand which he did not need for his 

upport wandered towards the hilt of his sword. 

. * My lord,” said the queen, “ permit me to observe that I agree in every 
Ses with the Duke of Norfolk ; if the heavens, instead of being 
Jouded as they are at the present moment, were perfectly serene and 

ropitious, we can afford to bestow a few hours upon the officer who has 
fonducted us so successfully, and with such extreme attention, to the 

/rench coast, where he is to take leave of us.” 

Buckingham, instead of replying, seemed to seek counsel from the ex- 
)jression of Madame’s face. She, however, half concealed beneath the 
(hick curtains of velvet and gold which sheltered her, had not listened to 
the discussion, having been occupied in watching the Comte de Guiche, 
who was conversing with Raoul. This was a fresh misfortune for Buck- 
ingham, who fancied he perceived in Madame Henrietta’s look a deeper 
feeling than that of curiosity. He withdrew, almost tottering in his gait, 
and nearly stumbled against the mainmast of the ship. 

“The duke has not acquired a steady footing yet,” said the queen- 
mother, in French, “and that may possibly be his reason for wishing to 
find himself on firm land again.” 

-The young man overheard this remark, turned suddenly pale, and 
letting his hands fall in great discouragement by his side, drew aside, 
mingling in one sigh his old affection and his new hatreds. The admiral, 
however, without taking any further notice of the duke’s ill-humour, led 
the princesses into the quarter-deck cabin, where dinner had been served 
with a magnificence worthy in every respect of his guests. The admiral 
seated himself at the right hand of the princess, and placed the Comte de 
Guiche on her left. This was the place Buckingham usually occupied ; 
and when he entered the cabin, how profound was his unhappiness to see 
himself banished by etiquette from the presence of the sovereign to whom 
he owed respect, to a position inferior to that which, by his rank, he was 
entitled to occupy. De Guiche, on the other hand, paler still perhaps from 
happiness, than his rival was {rom anger, seated himself tremblingly next the 
princess, whose silken robe, as it lightly touched him, caused a tremor of 
mingled regret and happiness to pass through his whole frame. The re- 

ast finished, Buckingham darted forward to hand Madame Henrietta from 

| 1e table ; but this time it was De Guiche’s turn to give the duke a lesson. 
Have the goodness, my lord, from this moment,” said he, “not to inter- 
ose between her royal highness and myself. From this moment, indeed, 
ner royal highness belongs to France,and when her royal highness honours 
e by touching my hand, it is the hand of his royal highness Monsieur, 
e brother of the king of France, that she touches.” 


. 


And saying this, he presented his hand to Madame Henrietta with so 


373 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


marked a timidity, and, at the same time, with a nobleness of mien $ 
intrepid, that a murmur of admiration rose from the English, whilst 

groan of despair escaped from Buckingham’s lips. Raoul, who loved 
comprehended it all. He fixed upon his friend one of those profoun 

looks which a friend or a mother can alone extend, either as a protecto 
or guardian, over the child or the friend about to stray from the right path. 
Towards two o’clock in the afternoon the sun shone forth, the wind sub: 
sided, the sea became smooth as a crystal mirror, and the fog which hag 
shrouded the coast disappeared like a veil withdrawn from before it. The 
smiling hills of France then appeared to the view, with their numerous 
white houses rendered more conspicuous by the bright green of the tree 
or the clear blue sky. : 


CHAPTER LXXXV. 
THE TENTS. 


Tue admiral, as has been seen, had determined to pay no further attentior 
to Buckingham’s threatening glances and fits of passion. In fact, from th 
moment they had left England he had gradually and quietly accustomed 
himself to it. De Guiche had not yet in any way remarked the animosit' 
which appeared to influence that young nobleman against him, but he fel: 
instinctively that there could be no sympathy between himself and the 
favourite of Charles II. The queen-mother, with greater experience anc 
calmer judgment, perceived the exact position of affairs, and, as she dis: 
cerned its danger, was prepared to meet it whenever the proper moment 
should arrive. Quiet had been everywhere restored, except in Bucking: 
ham’s heart ; he, in his impatience, addressed himself to the princess in 4 
low tone of voice: ‘For Heaven’s sake, madame, I implore you to hasten 
your disembarkation. Do you not perceive how that insolent Duke o: 
Norfolk is killing me with his attentions and devotions to you ?” 

Henrietta heard this remark ; she smiled, and, without turning her head 
towards him, but giving only to the tone of her voice that inflection oi 
gentle reproach and languid impertinence which coquetry so well know 
how to assume, she murmured, ‘‘I have already told you, my lord, th 
you must have taken leave of your senses.” 

Not a single detail escaped Raoul’s attention : he had heard both Buc 
ingham’s entreaty and the princess’s reply ; he had remarked Buckingha 
retire, had heard his deep sigh, and saw him pass his hand across his face 
He understood everything, and trembled as he reflected on the position 0 
affairs, and the state of the minds of those about him. At last the admiral 
with studied delay, gave the last directions for the departure of the boats 
Buckingham heard the directions given with such an exhibition of delight 
that a stranger would almost have imagined the young man’s reason wa 
affected. As the Duke of Norfolk gave his orders, a large boat or barg 
decked with flags, and capable of holding about twenty rowers and fiftee 
passengers, was slowly lowered from the side of the admiral’s vessel. Th 
barge was carpeted with velvet, and decorated with coverings embroider 
with the arms of England, and with garlands of flowers ; for at that tim 
signs and parables were cultivated freely enough. No sooner was tht 
boat afloat, and the rowers, with oars uplifted, awaiting, like soldiers pre 
senting arms, the embarkation of the princess, than Buckingham ran for 
ward to the ladder in order to take his place in the boat. His progres: 


THE TENTS. 379 


is, however, arrested by the queen. “My lord,” she said, “it is hardly 
coming that you should allow my daughter and myself to land, without 
ving previously ascertained that our apartments are properly prepared. 
beg your lordship to be good enough to precede us ashore, and to give 
rections that everything be in proper order on our arrival.” 

This was a fresh disappointment forthe duke, and still more so, since it 
1s so unexpected. He hesitated,  loured violently, but could not reply. 
e had thought he might be able to keep near Madame during the pas- 
ge to the shore, and, by this means, to enjoy to the very last moment 
e brief period which fortune still reserved for him. The order, however, 
is explicit, and the admiral, who heard it given, immediately called out, 
Launch the ship’s gig.” His directions were executed with that celerity 
hich distinguishes every manceuvre on board a man-of-war. 
Buckingham, in utter hopelessness, cast a look of despair at the princess, 
‘supplication towards the queen, and directed a glance full of anger to- 
ards the admiral. The princess pretended not to notice him, while the 
een turned aside her head, and the admiral laughed outright, at the 
und of which Buckingham seemed ready to spring upon him. The 
1een-mother rose, and, with a tone of authority, said, “ Pray set off, sir.” 
The young duke hesitated, looked around him, and with a last effort, 
f-choked by contending emotions, said, “ And you, gentlemen, M. ce 
uiche and M. de Bragelonne, do not you accompany me ?” 

De Guiche bowed and said, “ Both M. de Bragelonne and myself await 
x majesty’s orders ; whatever may be the commands she imposes 0. us, 
> shall obey them.” Saying this, he looked towards the princess, who 
st down her eyes. 

“Your grace will remember,” said the queen, “that M. de Guiche is 
re to represent Monsieur ; it is he who will do the honours cf France, 
you have done those of England. His presence cannot be dispensed 
ith ; besides, we owe him this slight favour for the courage he displayed 
genturing to seek us in such terrible weather.” 

Buckingham opened his lips as if he were about to speak, but, whether 
oughts or expressions failed him, not a syllable escaped them ; and turn- 
g away, as though he were out of his mind, he leapt from the vessel into 
@ boat. The sailors were just in time to catch hold of him to steady 
emselves, for his weight and the rebound had almost upset the boat. 

“ His grace cannot be in his senses,” said the admiral aloud to Raoul. 
“T amuneasy on his grace’s account,” replied Bragelonne. 

While the boat was advancing towards the shore, the duke kept his 
‘es immovably fixed upon the admiral’s ship, like a miser torn away from 
s coffers, or like a mother separated from her child, about to be led away 
‘death. No one, however, acknowledged his signals, his gesticulations, 
-his pitiful gestures. In very anguish of mind he sank down in the boat, 
irying his hands in his hair, whilst the boat, impelled by the exertions of 
e thoughtless sailors, flew over the waves. On his arrival, he was !> 
ich a state of apathy that, had he not been received at the harbour by 
e messenger whom he had directed to precede him, he would hardly 
sve been able to ask his way. Having once, however, reached the house 
hich had been set apart for him, he shut himself up, like Achilles in his 
nt. The barge bearing the princesses quitted the admiral’s vessel at the 
sry moment Buckingham had landed. It was followed by another boat, 
led with officers, courtiers, and zealous friends. Great numbers of the 
habitants of Havre, having embarked in fishing-boats, and boats of 
very description, set off to meet the royal barge. The cannon from the 


380. THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


forts fired salutes, which were returned by the flag-ship and the two other 
vessels, and the flashes from the open mouths of the cannon floated in 
white vapours over the waves, and then disappeared in the clear blue sky. 

The princess landed at the steps of the quay. Bands of gay music 
greeted her arrival, and accompanied her every step she took. During 
the time she was passing through the centre of the town, and treading 
beneath her delicate feet the richest carpets and the gayest flowers which | 
had been strewn upon the ground, De Guiche and Raoul, escaping from 
their English friends, hurried through the town and hastened rapidly 
towards the place intended for the residence of Madame. 

“Let us hurry forward,” said Raoul to De Guiche, “for, if I read 
Buckingham’s character aright, he will create some disturbance, when he’ 
learns the result of our deliberations of yesterday.” . 

“ Never fear,” said De Guiche, “ De Wardes is there, whois determina- 
tion itself, while Manicamp is the very personification of gentleness.” 

De Guiche was not, however, the less diligent on that account, and five’ 
minutes afterwards they were in sight of the Hotel de Ville. The first 
thing which struck them was the number of people assembled in front of 
the square. “Excellent,” said De Guiche, “our apartments, I see, are 
prepared.” 

In fact, in front of the Hotel de Ville, upon the wide open space before 
it, eight tents had been raised, surmounted by the flags of France and 
England united. The hotel was surrounded by tents, as by a girdle of 
variegated colours ; ten pages and a dozen mounted troopers, who had 
been given to the ambassadors for an escort, mounted guard before the, 
tents. It hadasingularly curious effect, almost fairy-like in its appearance. 
These tents had been constructed during the night-time. Fitted up, within” 
and without, with the richest materials that De Guiche had been able to 
procure in Havre, they completely encircled the Hotel de Ville. The only 
passage which led to the steps of the hotel, and which was not inclosed by 
the silken barricade, was guarded by two tents, resembling two pavil/Ms, 
the doorways of both of which opened towards the entrance. These two, 
tents were destined for De Guiche and Raoul ; in whose absence, they 
were intended to be occupied, that of De Guiche by De Wardes, and that: 
of Raoul by Manicamp. Surrounding these two tents, and the six others, 
a hundred officers, gentlemen, and pages, dazzling in their display of silk 
and gold, thronged like bees around a hive. Every one of them, their 
swords by their sides, was ready to obey the slightest sign either of De 
Guiche or Bragelonne, the two leaders of the embassy. . 

At the very moment the two young men appeared at the end of one of 
the streets leading to the square, they perceived crossing the square, at 
full gallop, a young man on horseback, and whose costume was of sur-’ 
prising richness. He pushed hastily through the crowd of curious lookers- 
on, and, at the sight of these unexpected erections, uttered a cry of anger 
aiid dismay. It was Buckingham, who had awakened from his stupor, in 
order to adorn himself with a costume perfectly dazzling from its beauty, 
and to await the arrival of the princess and the queen-mother at the Hotel 
de Ville. At the entrance to the tents, the soldier barred his passage, and 
his further progress was arrested. Buckingham, completely infuriated, 
raised his whip ; but his arm was seized by a couple of the officers. Of 
the two guardians of the tent, only one was there. De Wardes was in the 
interior of the Hétel de Ville, engaged in attending to the execution of 
some orders given by De Guiche. At the noise made by Buckingham, 
Manicamp, who was indolently reclining upon the cushions at the doorway 


CLL TENTS “381 

" one of the two tents, rose, with his usual indifference, ana, perceiving 
iat the disturbance continued, made his appearance from underneath 
1e curtains, “What is the matter?” he said, in a gentle tone of voice, 
and who is it making this disturbance?’ It so happened, that, at the 
.oment he began to speak, silence had just been restored, and, although 
is voice was very soft and gentle in its tone, every one heard his ques- 
on. Buckingham turned round, and looked at the tall, thin figure, and 
ie listless expression of countenance of his questioner. Probably the 
ersonal appearance of Manicamp, who was dressed very plainly, did not 
spire him with much respect, for he replied disdainfully, “ Who may 
yu be, monsieur ?” 

Manicamp, leaning on the arm of a gigantic trooper, as firm as the 
llar of a cathedral, replied in his usual tranquil tone of voice—“ And you, 
onsieur ?” 

‘“‘T, monsieur, am his grace the Duke of Buckingham ; I have hired all 
ie houses which surround the Hotel de Ville, where I have business to 
ansact ; and, as these houses are let, they belong to me, and, as I 
red them in order to preserve the right of free access to the Hétel de 
ille, you are not justified in preventing me passing to it.” 
“But who prevents you passing, monsieur ?” inquired Manicamp. 
“Your sentinels.” 

*‘ Because you wish to pass on horseback, and orders have been given 
‘let only persons on foot pass.” 
“No one has any right to give orders here, except myself,” said Buck- 
gham, 
“On what grounds ?” inquired Manicamp, with his soft tone, “ will you 
» me the favour to explain this enigma to me ?” 

'“ Because, as I have already told you, I have hired all the houses look- 
g on the square.” 
“We are very well aware of that, since nothing but the square itself has 
een left for us.” 
'“ You are mistaken, monsieur ; the square belongs to me, as well asthe 
uses in it.” 
“Forgive me, monsieur, but you are mistaken there. In ourcountry, we 
Ly, the highway belongs to the king, therefore this square is his majesty’s; 
ad, consequently, as we are the king’s ambassadors, the square belongs to 
aie 

> 


“JT have already asked you who you are, monsieur?” exclaimed Buck- 

gham, exasperated at the coolness of his interlocutor. 

'“ My name is Manicamp,” replied the young man, in a voice, whose 

mes were as harmonious and sweet as the notes of an A£olian harp. 
3uckingham shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, and said, ‘“ When 

\hired these houses which surround the Hotel de Ville, the square was 

aoccupied ; these barracks obstruct my sight, let them be removed.” 

_A hoarse and angry murmur rang through the crowd of listeners at these 

ords. DeGuiche arrived at this moment ; he pushed through the crowd 

hich separated him from Buckingham, and, followed by Raoul, arrived 

1 the scene of action, from one side, just as De Wardes arrived from the 

ther. ‘Pardon me, my lord; but if you have any complaint to make, 

ave the goodness to address it to me, inasmuch as it was I who supplied 

ie plans for the construction of these tents.” 

“ Moreover, I would beg you to observe, monsieur, that the term ‘ bar- 

ick’ is objected to,” added Manicamp graciously, 

* You were saying, monsieur——-” continued De Guiche. 


f 


382 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE., 

“I was saying, monsieur le comte,” resumed Buckingham in a tone of. 
anger more marked than ever, although in some measure moderated by 
the presence of an equal, “I was saying that it is impossible these tents 
can remain where they are.” 

“ Impossible !” exclaimed De Guiche, “and for what reason ?” 

“ Because I object to them.” 

A movement of impatience escaped De Guiche, but a warning glances 
from Raoul restrained him. | 4 

“ You should the less object to them, monsieur, on account of the abuse 
of priority you have permitted yourself to exercise.” iF 

“ Abuse |” 

“ Most assuredly. You commission a messenger, who hires in your 
name the whole of the town of Havre, without considering the members 
of the French court, who would be sure to arrive here to meet Madame. 
Your grace will admit that this is hardly friendly conduct in the repres 
sentative of a friendly nation.” 

“The right of possession belongs to him who is first on the spot.” 

“ Not in France, monsieur.” 

“Why not in France ?” 

“ Because France is a country where politeness is observed.” 

“Which means !” exclaimed Buckingham, in so violent a manner, that 
those who were present drew back, expecting an immediate collision. 

“Which means, monsieur,” replied De Guiche, turning pale, “that I 
have caused these tents to be raised as habitations for myself and my 
friends, as a shelter for the ambassadors of France, as the only place o 
refuge which your exactions have left us in the town ; and that I and thosé 
who are with me shall remain in them, at least, until an authority mor 
powerful, and particularly more supreme, than your own shall dismiss m 
from them.” 

“In other words, until we are ejected, as the lawyers say,’ observed 
Manicamp, blandly. 4 

“T know an authority, monsieur, which J trust will be such as you wish 
for,” said Buckingham, placing his hand on his sword. | 

At this moment, and as the goddess of Discord, inflaming all minds, 
was about to direct their swords against each other, Raoul gently 
placed his hand on Buckingham’s shoulder. ‘One word, my lord,” he 
said. 

“My right, my right, first of all !” exclaimed the fiery young man. 

“Tt is precisely upon that point I wish to have the honour of addressing 
a word to you.” 

“ Very well, monsieur, but let your remarks be brief.” 

“ One question is all I ask ; you can hardly expect me to be briefer.” 

“ Speak, monsieur, I am listening.” 

“ Are you, or is the Duke of Orleans, going to marry the granddaughter 
of Henry IV. ?” 

“What do you mean ?” exclaimed Buckingham, retreating a few steps, 
quite bewildered. : 

“ Have the goodness to answer me,” persisted Raoul tranquilly. 

“Do you mean to ridicule me, monsieur ?” inquired Buckingham. | 

“Your question is a sufficient answer forme. You admit, then, that 
it is not you who are going to marry the princess.” 

“Vou know it perfectly well, monsieur, I should imagine.” | 

“I beg your pardon, but your conduct has been such as to leave it not 
altogether certain.” cn ie 


THE TENTS. — 383 


‘Proceed, monsieur ; what-do you mean to convey?” 
2aoul approached the duke. “ Are you aware, my lord,” he said lower- 
his voice, “ that your extravagancies very much resemble the excesses 
jealousy. These jealous fits, with respect to any woman, are not be- 
ning in one who is neither her lover nor her husband ; and I am sure 
1 will admit that my remark applies with still greater force, when the 
y in question is a princess of royal blood.” 
* Monsieur,” exclaimed Buckingham, “do you mean to insult Madame 
enrietta ?” 
‘Be careful, my lord,” replied Bragelonne coldly, “for it is you who 
sult her. A little while since, when on board the admiral’s ship, you 
aried the queen, and exhausted the admiral’s patience. I was observ- 
x you, my lord; and, at first, I concluded you were not in possession 
your senses, but I have since surmised the real character of your 
idness.” 
“ Monsieur !” exclaimed Buckingham. 
“ One moment more, for I have yet another word to add. I trust I am 
2 only one of my companions who have guessed it.” 
“ Are you aware, monsieur,” said Buckingham, trembling with mingled 
slings of anger and uneasiness, “are you aware that you are holding a 
1guage towards me, which requires to be checked.” 
“Weigh your words well, my lord,” said Raoul, haughtily ; “ my nature 
not such that its vivacities need checking ; whilst you, on the contrary, 
e descended from a race whose passions are suspected by all true 
enchmen ; I repeat, therefore, for the second time, be careful !” 
“ Careful of what, may I ask? Do you presume to threaten me?” 
“Tam the son of the Comte de la Fére, my lord, and I never threaten, 
‘cause I strike first. Therefore, understand me well, the threat that I 
1d out to you is this——” 
Buckingham clenched his hands, but Raoul continued, as though he 
.d not observed the movement. “At the very first word, beyond the re- 
eci and deference due to her royal highness, which you permit yourself 
‘use towards her——Be patient, my lord, for I am perfectly so.” 
6“ You >? 
“ Undoubtedly, so long as Madame remained on English territory, I 
Jd my peace : but from the very moment she stepped on French ground, 
id now that we have received her in the name of the prince, I warn 
yu, that at the first mark of disrespect which you, in your insane attach- 
ent, shall exhibit towards the royal house of France, I shall have one 
‘two courses to follow ;—either I declare, in the presence of every one, 
e madness with which you are now affected, and I get you ignominiously 
smissed to England ; or, if you prefer it, I will run my dagger through 
yur throat, in the presence of all here. This second alternative seems 
me the least disagreeable, and I think I shall hold to it.” 
\Buckingham had become paler than the lace collar around his neck. 
M. de Bragelonne,” he said, “is it, indeed, a gentleman who is speaking 
me ?” 
‘Yes ; only the gentleman is speaking to a madman, Get cured, my 
rd, and he will hold quite another language to you.” 
'“But M. de Bragelonne,” murmured the duke, in a voice half-choked, 
ad putting his hand to his neck,—“ Do you not see I am dying.” 
“Tf your death were to take place at this moment, my lord,” replied 
aoul, with unruffled composure, “I should, indeed, regard it as a great 
ippiness, for this circumstance would prevent all kinds of evil remarks } 


384 | ‘THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


not alone about yourself, but also about those illustrious persons whom 
your devotion is compromising in so absurd’a manner.” 

” “You are right, you are right,” said the young man, almost beside him, 
self. “Yes, yes ; better to die, than to suffer as I do, at this moment.” And 
he grasped a beautiful dagger, the handle, of which was inlaid with precious 
stones, and which he half drew from his breast. 

Raoul thrust his hand aside. ‘‘Be careful what you do,” he said, “if 
you do not kill yourself, you commit a ridiculous action ; and if you were 
to kill yourself, you sprinkle blood upon the nuptial robe of the princess of 
England.” 

Buckingham remained a minute gasping for breath ; during this interval 
his lips quivered, his features worked convulsively, and his eyes wandered, 
as though in delirium. Then suddenly, he said, “M. de Bragelonne, I 
know nowhere a nobler mind than yours ; you are, indeed, a worthy son 
of the most perfect gentleman that ever lived. Keep your tents.” And 
he threw his arms round Raoul’s neck. All who were present, astounded 
at this conduct, which was such as they could hardly have expected, con- 
sidering the violence of the one adversary, and the determination of the 
other, began immediately to clap their hands, and a thousand cheers an 
joyful shouts arose from all sides. De Guiche, in his turn, embrace 
Buckingham somewhat against his inclination ; but, at all events, he di 
embrace him. This was the signal for French and English to do the 
same ; and they who, until that moment, had looked at each other with 
restless uncertainty, fraternized on the spot. In the meantime, the pro- 
cession of the princess arrived, and, had it not been for Bragelonne, two 
armies would have been engaged together in conflict, and blood have been 
shed upon the flowers with which the ground was covered. At the ap- 
pearance, however, of the banners borne at the head of the procession, 
quiet was restored, 


CHAPTER LXXXVI. 
NIGHT. 


CONCORD had returned to resume its place amidst the tents. English an 
French rivalled each other in their devotion and courteous attention t 
the two illustrious travellers. The English forwarded to the French baske 
of flowers, of which they had made a plentiful provision to greet the arriv 
of the young princess ; the French, in return, invited the English to 

supper, which was to be given the next day. Congratulations were poure 
in upon the princess everywhere during her journey. From the respec 
paid her on all sides, she seemed like a queen ; and from the adoratioi 
with which she was treated by some two or three, she seemed like a1 
object of worship. The queen-mother gave the French the most affection} 
ate reception. France was her native country, and she had suffered to 

much unhappiness in England, for England to have made her forg | 
France. She taught her daughter, then, by her own affection for it, th 
love for acountry where they had both been hospitably received, and whet 
a brilliant future was being opened before them. After the public entr 
was over, and the spectators in the streets had somewhat dispersed, an 


4 


NIGH. i ; 385 


‘nd seated himself upon one of the stools with so profound an expression 
f distress, that Bragelonne kept his eyes fixed on him until he heard him 
igh, and then he approached him. ‘The count had thrown himself back 
yn his seat, leaning his shoulders against the partition of the tent, and re- 
nained thus, his face buried in his hands, and with heaving chest and 
estless limbs. 

“You are suffering?” asked Raoul. 

* Cruelly.” 

“Bodily, I suppose ?” 

“Yes ; bodily.” 

“This has indeed been a harassing day,” continued the young man, his 
xyes fixed upon his friend. 

“Yes ; a night’s rest will restore me.” 

“ Shall I leave you ?” 

_ “No; I wish to talk to you.” 
. © You shall not speak to me, Guiche, until you have first answered my 
questions.” 

“ Proceed then.” 

“ You will be frank with me?” 

“As I always am.” 
~ “Can you imagine why Buckingham has been so violent ?” 

“T suspect why.” 

“ Because he is in love with Madame, is it not ?” 

‘ One could almost swear it, to see him.” 

“Vou are mistaken; there is nothing of the kind.” 

“Tt is you who are mistaken, Raoul ; I have read his distress in his 
eyes, in his every gesture and action the whole day.” 

“You are a poet, my dear count, and find subjects for your muse every- 
where.” 

“T can perceive love ¢'carly enough.” 

“ Where it does not exist ?’ 

“ Nay, where it does exist.” 

“Do you not think you are deceiving yourself, Guiche ?” 

“ T am convinced of what I say,” said the count. 

“ Now, inform me, count,” asked Raoul, fixing a penetrating look upon 
him, “ what has happened to render you so clear-sighted ?” 

Cuiche hesitated for a moment, and then answered, “Self-love, I sup- 

ose.” 

“ Self-love is a very long word, Guiche.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“T mean that, generally, you are less out of spirits than seems to be the 
case this evening.” 

“T am fatigued.” ; 

“Tisten to me, dear Guiche ; we have been campaigners together ; we 
have been on horseback for eighteen hours at a time, and our horses even 
dying from fatigue, or from sheer exhaustion, or hunger, have fallen be- 
neath us, and yet we have laughed at our mishaps. Believe me, it is not 
fatigue which saddens you to-night.” 

“Tt is annoyance, then.” 

“ What annoyance ?”—“ That of this evening.” 

- The mad conduct of the Duke of Buckingham, do you mean ?” 

| “Of course ; is it not vexatious for us, the representatives of our sove- 
eign master, to witness the devotion of an Englishman to our future 
istress, the second lady in point of rank in the kingdom ?” 


25 


386 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. | 

“Ves, youre right ; but I do not think any danger is to be apprehended 
from Buckingham.” 

“No ; still, he is intrusive. Did he not, on his arrival here, almost 
succeed in creating a disturbance between the English and ourselves ; 
and, had it not been for you, for your admirable prudence, for your singu- 
lar decision of character, swords would have been drawn in the very! 
streets of the town.” 7 

“You observe, however, that he has changed.” 

“Yes, certainly ; but it is that which amazes me so much. You spoke 
to him in a low tone of voice, what did you say to him? You think he 
loves her ; you admit that such a passion does not give way readily. He 
does not love her, then !” De Guiche pronounced the latter words with so 
marked an expression that Raoul raised his head. The noble character 
of the young man’s countenance expressed a displeasure which coulr{ 
easily be read. mt 

“What I said to him, count,” replied Raoul, “I will repeat to you. 
Listen to me. I said, ‘You are regarding with wistful feelings, and with" 
most injurious desire, the sister of your prince,—her to whom you are not 
affianced, who is not, who can never be, anything to you ; you are out- 
raging those who, like ourselves, have come to seek a young girl to lea 
her to her husband.’ ” 

“You spoke to him in that manner ?” asked Guiche, colouring. 

“In those very terms; I evenadded more. ‘How would you regard 
us, I said, ‘if you were to perceive among us a man mad enough, dis- 
loyal enough, to entertain other than sentiments of the most perfect re 
spect for a princess who is the destined wife of our master?” 

These words were so applicable to De Guiche that he turned pale, and, 
overcome by a sudden agitation, was barely able to stretch out one hand 
mechanically towards Raoul, as he covered his eyes and face with the 
other. 

“But,” continued Raoul, not interrupted by this movement of his friend, 
“ Heaven be praised, the French, who are pronounced to be thoughtless 
and indiscreet, reckless even, are capable of bringing a calm and sound 
judgment to bear on matters of such high importance. I added even 
more, for I said, ‘ Learn, my lord, that we gentlemen of France devote our- 
selves to our sovereigns by sacrificing for them our affections, as well as 
our fortunes and our lives ; and whenever it may chance to happen tha 
the tempter suggests one of those vile thoughts which set the heart o 
fire, we extinguish that flame, even were it done by shedding our bloo 
for the purpose. Thus it is that the honour of three persons is saved 
our country’s, our master’s and our own. It is thus that we act, you 
grace ; it is thus that every man of honour ought to act.’ In this manne 
my dear Guiche,” continued Raoul, “I addressed the Duke of Buckin 
ham ; and he admitted and resigned himself unresistingly to my arg 
ments.” 

De Guiche, who had hitherto sat leaning forward while Raoul wa 
speaking, drew himself up, his eyes glancing proudly ; he seized Raoul’ 
hand, his face, which had been as cold as ice, seemed on fire. “And yo 
spoke right well,” he said, in a voice half choked; “you are indeed 
friend, Raoul. And now, I entreat you, leave me to myself.” 

“ Do you wish it ?” 

“Ves: Ineed repose. Many things have agitated me to-day both i 
mind and body ; when you return to-morrow I shall no longer be th 
same man.” ois. 3a 


NIGHT. 387 


_ *T leave you, then,” said Raoul, as he withdrew. The count advanced 
a step towards his friend, and pressed him warmly in his arms. But in 
this friendly pressure Raoul could detect the nervous agitation of a great 
internal conflict. 

The night was clear, starlight, and splendid: the tempest had passed 
away, and the warmth of the sun had restored life, peace, and security 
everywhere, A few light fleecy clouds were floating in the heavens, and 
indicated from their appearance a continuance of beautiful weather, tem- 
pered by a gentle breeze from the east. Upon the large square in front 
of the hétel, the large shadows of the tents, intersected by the brilliant 
moonbeams, formed as it were a huge mosaic of black and white flag- 
stones. Soon, however, the whole town was wrapped in slumber; a 
feeble light still glimmered in Madame’s apartment, which looked out 
upon the square, and the soft rays from the expiring lamp seemed to be 
the image of the calm sleep of a young girl, hardly yet sensible of ex- 
iistence, and in whom the flame of life sinks down as sleep steals over the 
body. Bragelonne quitted the tent with the slow and measured step of a 
man curious to observe, but anxious not to be seen. Sheltered behind the 
thick curtains of his own tent, embracing with a glance the whole square, 
he noticed that, after a few moments’ pause, the curtains of De Guiche’s 
tent were agitated, and then drawn partially aside. Behind them he could 
perceive the shadow of De Guiche, his eyes glistening in the obscurity, 
fastened ardently upon the princess’s sitting apartment, which was par- 
tially lighted by the lampin the inner room. ‘That soft light which illu- 
mined the windows was the count’s star. The fervent aspirations of his 
nature could be read in his eyes. Raoul, concealed in the shadow, divined 
the many passionate thoughts which established, between the tent of the 
young ambassador and the balcony of the princess, a mysterious and 
magical bond of sympathy—a bond created by thoughts imprinted with 
so much strength and persistence of will, that they certainly besought that 
happy and loving dreams might alight upon the perfumed couch, which - 
the count with the eyes of his soul devoured so eagerly. But De Guiche 
and Raoul were not the only watchers. The window of one of the houses 
looking on the square was opened too, the window of the house where 
Buckingham resided. By the aid of the rays of light which issued from 
this latter window, the profile of the duke could be distinctly seen, as he 
indolently reclined upon the carved balcony with its velvet hangings ; he 
also was breathing in the direction of the princess’s apartment his prayers 
and the wild visions of his love. 

Bragelonne could not resist smiling, as, thinking of Madame, he said to 
himself, “ Hers is, indeed, a heart well besieged ;” and then added, com- 
passionately, as he thought of Monsieur, “and he is a husband well 
threatened too ; it is a good thing for him that he is a prince of such high 
rank, and that he has an army to win for him that which is his own.” 
Bragelonne watched for some time the conduct of the two lovers, listened 
to the loud and uncivil slumbers of Manicamp, who snored as imperiously 
as though he had his blue and gold, instead of his violet suit, and then 
turned towards the night breeze which bore towards him, he seemed to 
think, the distant song of a nightingale ; and, after having laid in a due 

.provision of melancholy, another nocturnal malady, he retired to rest, 
¢)jinking, that with regard to his own love affair, perhaps four or six eyes, 
uite as ardent as those of De Guiche and Buckingham, were coveting 
s own idol in the chateau at Blois. “ And Mademoiselle de Montalais is 
| no means a very safe garrison,” said he to himself, as he sighed aloud. 


25—2 


) 


3838 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“eg CHAPTER LXXXVIE: 
FROM HAVRE TO PARIS. 


THE next day the /é¢es took place, accompanied by all the pomp and ani- 
mation which the resources of the. town and the natural disposition of 
men’s minds could supply. During the last few hours spent in Havre, 
every preparation for the departure had been made. After Madame had 


scattering gold, and exciting the liveliest demonstrations as they passe 
through the different towns and villages on the route. 
very fine. France is a beautiful country, especially along the route by 
which the procession passed. Spring cast its flowers and its perfumed 

foliage upon their path. Normandy, with its vast variety of vegetation, its 

blue skies and silver rivers, displayed itself in all the loveliness of a Para- 

dise for the new sister of the king. /¢é¢es and brilliant displays received 

them everywhere long the line of march. De Guiche and Buckingham 

forgot everything ; De Guiche in his anxiety to prevent any fresh attempts 

on the part of the dake, and Buckingham, in his desire to awaken in the 

heart of the princes: a softer remembrance of the country, to which the | 
recollection of many happy days belonged. But, alas! the poor duke | 
could perceive that the image of that country so cherished by himself be- 
-came, from day to day, more and more effaced in Madame’s mind, in 
exact proportion as her affection for France became more deeply engraved 
onher heart. In fact it was not difficult to perceive that his most de- 
voted attention awakened no acknowledgment, and that the grace with 
which he rode one of his most fiery horses was thrown away, for it was 
only casually and by the merest accident that the princess’s eyes were 
turned towards him. In vain did he try, in order to fix upon himself one 
of those looks, which were thrown carelessly around, or bestowed else- 
where, to produce from the animal he rode its greatest display of strength, 
speed, temper, and address ; in vain did he, by exciting his horse almost 
to madness, spur him, at the risk of dashing himself in pieces against the 
trees, or of rolling in the ditches, over the gates and_ barriers which the 

passed, or down the steep declivities of the hills. Madame, whose atten- 
tion had been aroused by the noise, turned her head for a moment t 

observe the cause of it, and then, slightly smiling, again turned round to 
her faithful guardians, Raoul and De Guiche, who were quietly riding a 
her carriage doors. Buckingham felt himself a prey to all the tortures 0 
jealousy ; an unknown, unheard-of anguish glided into his veins, and lai 
siege to his heart ; and then, as if to show that he knew the folly of hi 
conduct, and that he wished to correct, by the humblest submission, hig 
flights of absurdity, he mastered his horse, and compelled him, reekin 
with sweat and flecked with foam, to champ his bit close beside t 

carriage, amidst the crowd of courtiers. Occasionally he obtained a wor} 
from Madame as a recompense, and yet this word seemed almost a j 


proach to him. 


| 


by is 


| 


FROM HAVRE TO PARIS. 389 


* That is well, my lord,” she said, “now you are reasonable.” 
Or from Raoul, ‘* Your grace is killing your horse.” 
Buckingham listened patiently to Raoul’s remarks, for he instinctively 
slt, without having had any proof that such was the case, that Raoul 
hecked the display of De Guiche’s feelings, and that, had it not been for 
2aoul, some mad act or proceeding, either of the count, or of Buckingham 
imself, would have brought about an open rupture, or a disturbance, and 
ierhaps even exile itself. From the moment of that excited conversation 
vhich the two young men had had in front of the tents at Havre, when 
Zaoul had made the duke perceive the impropriety cf his conduct, Buck- 
ngham had felt himself attracted towards Raoul almost in spite of him- 
elf. He often entered into conversation with him, and it was nearly 
ilways to talk to him either of his father or of D’Artagnan, their mutual 
riend, in whose praise Buckingham was nearly as enthusiastic as Raoul. 
aoul endeavoured, as much as possible, to make the conversation turn 
pon this subject in De Wardes’ presence, who had, during the whole 
Hurney, been exceedingly annoyed at the superior position taken by 
3ragelonne, and especially by his influence over De Guiche. De Wardes 
19,1 that keen and observant penetration which all evil natures possess, 
é had immediately remarked De Guiche’s melancholy, and the nature 
fhis regard for the princess. Instead, however, of treating the subject 
vith the same reserve which Raoul had practised ; instead of regarding 
vith that respect, which was their due, the obligations and duties of 
society, De Wardes resolutely attacked in the count that ever-sounding 
chord of juvenile audacity and egotistical pride. It happened one evening, 
‘uring a halt at Nantes, that while De Guiche and De Wardes were lean- 

» .@ainst a barrier,engaged in conversation, Buckingham and Raoul were 
\/,5 talking together as they walked up and down. Manicamp was engaged 

devotional attentions to the princesses, who already treated him without 
iny reserve, on account of his versatile fancy, his frank courtesy of manner, 
and conciliatory disposition. 

“ Confess,” said De Wardes, “that you are really ill, and that your peda- 
zogue of a friend has not succeeded in curing you.” 

* T do not understand you,” said the count. 

“ And yet it is easy enough ; you are dying for love.” 

“You are mad, De Wardes.” 

“ Madness it would be, I admit, if Madame were really indifferent to 
your martyrdom ; but she takes so much notice of it, observes it to such 
an extent, that she compromises herself, and I tremble lest, on our arrival 
at Paris, M. de Bragelonne may not denounce both of you.” 

_ “For shame, De Wardes, again attacking De Bragelonne.” 
“ Come, come, a truce to child’s play,” replied the count’s evil genius, in 
n undertone ; “you know, as well as I do, what I mean. Besides, you 
ust have observed how the princess’s glance softens as she looks at you ; 
—you can tell, by the very inflection of her voice, what pleasure she takes 
in listening to you, and can feel how thoroughly she appreciates the 
verses you recite to her. You cannot deny, too, that every morning she 
tells you how indifferently she slept the previous night.” 
- “True, De Wardes, quite true ; but what good is there in your telling 
me all that ??——“Is it not important to know the exact position of affairs?” 
7 “No, no ; not when I ama witness of things which are enough to drive 
ene mad.” 
+\‘* Stay, stay,” said De Wardes ; “look, she cails you; do you under- 
ind? Profit by the occasion, for your pedagogue is not here.” 


300 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


De Guiche could not resist ; an invincible attraction drew him towards 
the princess. De Wardes smiled as he saw him withdraw. 

“You are mistaken, monsieur,” said Raoul, suddenly stepping across 
the barrier against which, the previous moment, the two friends had been 
leaning ; “the pedagogue is here, and has overheard you.” 

De Wardes, at the sound of Raoul’s voice, which he recognised without 
having occasion to look at him, half drew his sword. 

“ Put up your sword,” said Raoul ; “you know perfectly well that, until ’ 
our journey is at an end, every demonstration of that nature is useless. | 
Why do you distil into the heart of the man you term your friend all the ; 
bitterness which infects your own? As regards myself, you wish to arouse 
a feeling of deep dislike against a man of honour—my father’s friend, and } 
my own ; and as for the count, you wish him to love one who is destined s 
for your master. Really, monsieur, I should regard you as a coward, an 
a traitor too, if I did not, with greater justice, regard you as a madman.” 

“ Monsieur,” exclaimed De Wardes, exasperated, “I was deceived, I 
find, in terming you a pedagogue ; the tone you assume, and the style 
which is peculiarly your own, is that of a Jesuit, and not of a gentleman. 
Discontinue, I beg, whenever I am present, this style I complain of, ade \ 
the tone also. I hate M. d’Artagnan because he was guilty of a cowardly 
act towards my father.” 

Vou lie, monsieur !” said Raoul, coolly. 

“You give me the lie, monsieur ?” exclaimed De Wardes. 

“ Why not, if what you assert be untrue ?” 


“You give me the lie, and do not draw your sword ?” 
“IT have resolved, monsieur, not to kill you until Madame shall har 
been delivered up into her husband’s hands,” 4 

“Kill me! Believe me, monsieur, your schoolmaster’s rod does noty 
kill so easily.” . 

“No,” replied Raoul, sternly, “ but M. d’Artagnan’s sword kills ; and, 
not only do I possess his sword, but he has himself taught me how to use 
it ; and with that sword, when a befitting time arrives, I shall avenge his 
name—a name you have so dishonoured.” 

“ Take care, monsieur,” exclaimed De Wardes; “if you do not immedi- 
ately give me satisfaction, I will avail myself of every means to revenge, 
myself.” 

“Indeed, monsieur,” said Buckingham, suddenly appearing upon the 
scene of action, “that is a threat which sounds like assassination, and 
would, therefore, ill become a gentleman.” 

“What did you say, my lord?” said De Wardes, turning round towards| 
him. 

“ T said, monsieur, that the words you have just spoken are displeasing 
to my English ears.” 

“Very well, monsieur, if what you say is true,” exclaimed De Wardes, 
thoroughly incensed, “I shall at least find in you one who will not escape) 
me. Understand my words as you like.” | 

“T understand them in the manner they cannot but be understood,” re- 
plied Buckingham, with that haughty tone which characterised him, and 
which, even in ordinary conversation, gave a tone of defiance to everything 
he said. ‘“M. de Bragelonne is my friend ; you insult M. de Bragelonne 
and you shall give me satisfaction for that insult.” 

De Wardes cast a look upon De Bragelonne, who, faithful to the chial 
ae he had assumed, remained calm and unmoyed, even after the duke): 

enance. 


hese 


FROM HAVRE TO PARIS. 391 


“Tt would seem that I did not insult M. de Bragelonne, since M. de 
Bragelonne, who carries a sword by his side, does not consider himself 
nsulted.” 

“ At all events, you insult some one ?” 

“Yes, I insulted M. d’Artagnan,” resumed De Wardes, who had ob- 
served that this was the only means of stinging Raoul, so as to awaken 
his anger. 

“ That, then,” said Buckingham, “is another matter.” 

“ Precisely so,” said De Wardes ; “it is the province of M.d’Artagnan’s 
friends to defend him.” 

“Tam entirely of your opinion,” replied the duke, who had regained all 
his indifference of manner. “If M. de Bragelonne were offended, I could 
not reasonably be expected to espouse his quarrel, since he is himself 
here ; but when you say that it is a quarrel of M. d’Artagnan——” 

“ You will of course leave me to deal with the matter,” said De Wardes. 

“ Nay, the very contrary, for I draw my sword,” said Buckingham, 
unsheathing it as he spoke ; “ for, if M. d’Artagnan injured your father, 
he rendeéred, or at least did all that he could to render, a great service to 
mine.” 
©“ De Wardes seemed thunderstruck. 

“ M,. d’Artagnan,” continued Buckingham, “is the bravest gentleman I 
know. I shall be delighted, as I owe him many personal obligations, to 
settle them with you, by crossing my sword with yours.” At the same 
moment Buckingham drew his sword gracefully from its scabbard, saluted 
Raoul, and put himself on guard. 

De Wardes advanced a step to meet him. 

“ Stay, gentlemen,” said Raoul, advancing towards them, and placing 
his own drawn sword between the combatants ; “the affair is hardly worth 
the trouble of blood being shed almost in the presence of the princess. 
M. de Wardes speaks ill of M. d’Artagnan, with whom he is not even 
acquainted.” 

“What, monsieur !” said De Wardes, setting his teeth hard together, 
and resting the point of his sword on the toe of his boot, “do you assert 
that I do not know M. d’Artagnan ?” 

“Certainly not ; you do not know him,” replied Raoul, coldly, “and 
you are even not aware where he is to be found.” 

“ Not know where he is ?” 

“Such must be the case, since you fix your quarrel with him upon 

strangers, instead of seeking M. d’Artagnan where he is to be found.” 
De Wardes turned pale. “ Well, monsieur,” continued Raoul, “ I will tell 
you where M. d’Artagnan is : he is now in Paris ; when on duty, he is to 
be met with at the Louvre ; when not so, in the Rue des Lombards. M. 
d’Artagnan can be easily discovered at either of those two places. Having, 
therefore, as you assert, so many causes of complaint against him, you do 
not show your courage in not seeking him out, to afford him an oppor- 
tunity of giving you that satisfaction you seem to ask of every one but of 
himself.” De Wardes passed his hand across his forehead, which was 
covered with perspiration. ‘For shame, M. de Wardes ! so quarrelsome 
a disposition is hardly becoming after the publication of the edicts against 
duels. Pray think of that. The king will be incensed at our disobedience, 
particularly at such a time ; and his majesty will be in the right.” 

 & Mere excuses !” murmured De Wardes, “ mere pretexts !” 

Y “Really, my dear M. de Wardes,” resumed Raoul, “such remarks are 
Fhe merest idle talk ; you know very well that the Duke of Buckingham is 


392 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


a man of undoubted courage, who has already fought ten duels, and will 
probably fight eleven. His name alone is significant enough. As far as lam 
concerned, you are well aware that I can fight also. I fought at Sens, at 
Bleneau, at the Dunes in front of the artillery, a hundred paces in front of 
the line, while you—I say this parenthetically—were a hundred paces be- 
hind it. True it is, that on that occasion there were by far too great a 
concourse of persons present for your courage to be observed, and on that 
account, perhaps, you did not reveal it ; while here, it would be a display, - 
and would excite remark,—you wish that others should talk about you, in 
what manner you do not care. Do not depend upon me, M. de Wardes, 
to assist you in your designs, for I shall certainly not afford you that 


pleasure.” 
“¢ Sensibly tae ue ” said Buckingham, putting up his sword, “and I 
ask your forgiveness, M. de Bragelonne, for having allowed myself to yield! 


to a first impulse.” 

De Wardes, however, on the contrary, perfectly furious, bounded for- 
ward, and raised his sword threateningly against Raoul, who had scarcely, 
time to put himself in a posture of defence. 

“Take care, monsieur,” said Bragelonne, tranquilly, “or you will all 
out one of my eyes.” ie a 

“ You will not fight, then ?” said De Wardes. 

“Not at this moment; but this I promise to do, immediately on our 
arrival at Paris: I will conduct you to M. d’Artagnan, to whom you shall 
detail all the causes of complaint you have against him. M. d’Artagnan 
will solicit the king’s permission to measure swords with you. The king 
will yield his consent, and when you shall have received the sword-thrust 
in due course, you will consider, in a calmer frame of mind, the precepts 
of the Gospel, which enjoin forgetfulness of injuries.” 

‘Ah!’ exclaimed De Wardes, furious at this imperturbable coolness, 
“one can clearly see you are half a bastard, M. de Bragelonne.” 

Raoul became as pale as death ; his eyes flashed like lightning, and 
made De Wardes fall back. Buckingham also, who had perceived their 
expression, threw himself between the two adversaries, whom he expected 
to see precipitate themselves on each other. De Wardes had reserved 
this injury for the last; he clasped his sword tight in his hand, and 
awaited the encounter. “ You are right, monsieur,” said Raoul, mastering 
his emotion, “I am only acquainted with my father’s name; but I know 
too well that the Comte de la Fére is too upright and honourable a man 
to allow me to fear for a single moment that there is, as you seem to say, 
any stain upon my birth. My ignorance, therefore, of my mother’s name 
is a misfortune for me, and not a reproach. You are deficient in loyalty 
of conduct ; you are wanting in courtesy, in reproaching me with misfor- 
tune. It matters little, however, the insult has been given, and I consider 
myself insulted accordingly. It is quite understood, then, that after you 
shall have received satisfaction from M. d’Artagnan, you will settle your 
quarrel with me.’ 

“‘T admire your prudence, monsieur,” replied De Wardes, with a bitter 
smile ; “a little while ago you promised me a sword-thrust from M. 
d’Artagnan, and now, after I shall have received his, you offer me one 
from yourself.” 

‘Do not disturb yourself,” replied Raoul, with concentrated anger ; “in 
all affairs of that nature, M. d’Artagnan is exceedingly skilful, and I will 
beg him as a favour to treat you as ‘he did your father ; in other words, to 
spare your life at least, so as to leave me the pleasure, after your recovery, | 


FROM HAVRE TO PARIS. 393 


killing you outright ; for you have a bad heart, M. de Wardes, and in 

truth, too many precautions cannot be taken against you.” 

“T shall take my precautions against you,” said De Wardes, “be as- 
ced*of it.” 

“ Allow me, monsieur,” said Buckingham, “to translate your remark by 
piece of advice I am about to give M. de Bragelonne: M. de Brage- 
ane, wear a cuirass.” 

De Wardes clenched his hands. “Ah!” said he, “you two gentlemen 
tend to wait until you have taken that precaution before you measure 
uur swords against mine.” 

“Very well, monsieur,” said Raoul, “since you positively will have it 
, let us settle the affair now.” And, drawing his sword, he advanced 
wards De Wardes. 

“What are you going to do?” said Buckingham. 

“ Be easy,” said Raoul, “it will not be very long.” 

De Wardes placed himself on his guard; their swords crossed. De 
Tardes flew upon Raoul with such impetuosity, that at the first clashing 
- the steel blades Buckingham clearly saw that Raoul was only trifling 
ith his adversary. Buckingham stepped aside, and watched the struggle. 
aoul was as calm as if he were handling a foil, instead of a sword ; 
aving retreated a step, he parried three or four fierce thrusts which De 
lardes made at him, caught the sword of the latter within his own, send- 
¢ it flying twenty paces the other side of the barrier. Then as De 
Fardes stood disarmed and astounded at his defeat, Raoul sheathed his 
vord, seized him by the collar and the waistband, and hurled him also to 
.e other side of the barrier, trembling and mad with rage. 

“We shall meet again,” murmured De Wardes, rising from the ground 
nd picking up his sword. 

“T have done nothing for the last hour,” said Raoul, “but say the same 
jing.” Then, turning towards the duke, he said, “JT entreat you to be 
lent about this affair; I am ashamed to have gone so far, but my anger 
urried me away, and I ask your forgiveness for it ;—forget it, too.” 

“Dear viscount,” said the duke, pressing within his own the vigorous 
nd valiant hand of his companion, “allow me, on the contrary, to re- 
ember it, and to look after your safety ; that man is dangerous,—he will 
Il you.” 

“My father,” replied Raoul, “lived for twenty years under the menace 

a much more formidable enemy, and he still lives.” 

“ Your father had good friends, viscount.” 

“Ves,” sighed Raoul, “such friends indeed that none are nowleft like them.” 

“Do not say that, I beg, at the very moment I offer you my friendship,” 

d Buckingham opened his arms to embrace Raoul, who delightedly re- 

ived the proffered alliance. ‘In my family,” added Buckingham, ‘* you 

e aware, M. de Bragelonne, that we die to save those we love.” 

“T know it well, duke,” replied Raoul. 


| CharT eR. Ex Xu Li, 


\N ACCOUNT OF WHAT THE CHEVALIER DE LORRAINE THOUGHT OF 
: MADAME. 


THING further interrupted the journey. Under a pretext which was 
y\lle remarked, M. de Wardes went forward in advance of the others. 
P| took Manicamp with him, for his equable and dreamy disposition 


394 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE 


acted as a counterpoise to his own. It isa subject of remark, that quarrel- 
some and restless characters invariably seek the companionship of gentle, 
timorous dispositions, as if the former sought, in the contrast, a repose 
for their own ill-humour, and the latter a protection against their own 
weakness. Buckingham and Bragelonne, admitting De Guiche into their 
friendship, joined, in concert with him, the praises of the princess during 
the whole of the journey. Bragelonne had, however, insisted that thei 
three voices should be in concert, instead of singing in solo parts, as D 
Guiche and his rival seemed to have acquired a dangerous habit of doing 
This style of harmony pleased the queen-mother exceedingly, but it was 
not perhaps so agreeable to the young princess, who was an incarnatio 
of coquetry, and who, without any fear as far as her own voice was co { 
cerned, sought opportunities of so perilously distinguishing herself. Sha 
possessed one of those fearless and incautious dispositions which fin 
gratification in an excess of sensitiveness of feeling, and for whom, als 
danger has a certain fascination. And so her glances, her smiles, he 
toilette, an inexhaustible armoury of weapons of offence, were showerec 
down upon the three young men with overwhelming force ; and, from he1 
well-stored arsenal issued glances, kindly recognitions, and a thousanc 
other little charming attentions which were intended to strike at lon 
range the gentlemen who formed the escort, the townspeople, the officer 
of the different cities she passed through, pages, populace, and servants | 
it was wholesale slaughter, a general devastation. By the time Madam 
arrived at Paris, she had reduced to slavery about a hundred thousanc 
lovers : and brought in her train to Paris, half-a-dozen men who wer 
almost mad about her, and two who where quite out of their minds 
Raoul was the only person who divined the power of this woman’s at 
traction, and, as his heart was already engaged, he arrived in the capita 
full of indifference and distrust. Occasionally during the journey he cor 
versed with the queen of England respecting the power of fascinatio 
which Madame possessed, and the mother, whom so many misfortune 
and deceptions had taught experience, replied: “ Henrietta was sure to b 
‘Hustrious in one way or another, whether born in a palace or born i 
obscurity ; for she is a woman of great imagination, capricious, and sel 
willed.” De Wardes and Manicamp, in their character of couriers, ha 
announced the princess’s arrival. The procession was met at Nantert 
by a brilliant escort of cavaliers and carriages. It was Monsieur himse 
who, followed by the Chevalier de Lorraine and by his favourites, th 
latter being themselves followed bya portion of the king’s military hous 
hold, had arrived to meet his affianced bride. At St. Germain, the pri. 
cess and her mother had changed their heavy travelling carriage, somewh 
impaired by the journey, for a light, richly-decorated chariot drawn by s 
horses with white and gold harness. Seated in this open carriage, | 
though upon a throne, and beneath a parasol of embroidered silk, fring 
with feathers, sat the young and lovely princess, on whose beaming fa 
were reflected the softened rose-tints which suited her delicate skin 
perfection. Monsieur, on reaching the carriage, was struck by her beaut: 
he showed his admiration in so marked _a manner that the Chevalier | 
Lorraine shrugged his shoulders as he listened to his compliments, wh 
Buckingham and De Guiche were almost heart broken. After the ust 
courtesies had been rendered, and the ceremony completed, the processi 
slowly resumed the road to Paris. The presentations had been careles: 
made, and Buckingham, with the rest of the English gentlemen, had be 
introduced to Monsieur, from whom they had received but a very | 


| 


WHAT LORRAINE THOUGHT OF MADAME. 395 


rent attention. But during their progress, as he observed that the 

= devoted himself with his accustomed earnestness to the carriage- 

r, he asked the Chevalier de Lorraine, his inseparable companion, 

tho is that cavalier ?” 

He was presented to your highness a short time since ; it is the hand- 

1e Duke of Buckingham.” 

“Yes, yes, I remember.” 

‘Madame’s knight,” added the favourite, with an inflection of the voice 

‘ch envious minds can alone give to the simplest phrases. 

‘What do you say ?” replied the prince. 

‘I said, ‘ Madame’s knight.’ ” 

‘Has she a recognised knight, then ts 

‘One would think you can judge of that for yourself; look, only, how 

“y are laughing and flirting. All three of them.” 

“What do you mean by all three ?” 

“To you not see that De Guiche is one of the party ?” 

“Ves, I see. But what does that prove ?” 

“That Madame has two admirers instead of one.” 

“You poison everything, viper.” 

“J poison nothing. Ah! your royal highness’s mind is very perverted. 
1e honours of the kingdom of France are being paid to your wife, and 
uu are not satisfied.” 

The Duke of Orleans dreaded the satirical humour of the Chevalier de 
orraine whenever he found it reached a certain degree of bitterness, and 
> changed the conversation abruptly. “The princess is pretty,” said he 
sry negligently, as if he were speaking of a stranger. 

“Yes,” replied the chevalier, in the same tone. 

“You say ‘yes’ like a no. She has very beautiful black eyes.” 

“Yes, but small.” 

“That is so, but they are brilliant. She has a good figure.” 

“ Her figure is a little spoilt, my lord.” 

‘‘] do not deny it. She hasa noble appearance.” 

“Yes, but her face is thin.” 

“JT thought her teeth beautiful.” 

“ They can easily be seen, for her mouth is large enough. Decidedly I 
vas wrong, my lord ; you are certainly handsomer than your wife.” 

“ But do you think me as handsome as Buckingham ?”' 

‘Certainly, and he thinks so, too ; for, look, my lord, he is redoubling 
nis attentions, to Madame, to prevent your effacing the impression he has 
made.” 

Monsieur made a movement of impatience, but as he noticed a smile of 
triumph pass across the chevalier’s lips, he drew up his horse to a foot- 
Bace. “* Why,” said he, “ should I occupy myself any longer about my 
cousin? Do I not already know her ?. Were we not brought up together ? 
Did I not see her at the Louvre when she was quite a child ?” 

“ A great change has taken place in her since then, prince. At the 
period you allude to, she was somewhat less brilliant, and somewhat less 
proud too. One evening, particularly, you may remember, my lord, the 
king refused to dance with her, because he thought her plain and badly 

dressed !” 
“ These words made the Duke of Orleans frown. It was by no means 
jattering for him to marry a princess of whom, when young, the king had 
jot thought much. He might probably have replied, but at this moment 


. 


De Guiche quitted the carriage to join the prince. He had remarked the 


} 


396 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


prince and the chevalier together, and full of anxious attention ; he seemed 
to try and guess the nature of the remarks which they had just exchanged. 
The chevalier, whether he had some treacherous object in view, or from 
imprudence, did not take the trouble to dissimulate. ‘“ Count,” he said, 
“you're a man of excellent taste.” se 

“ Thank you for the compliment,” replied De Guiche ; “but why do you 
say that?” 7% 

“Well, I appeal to his highness 

“ No doubt of it,” said Monsieur, “ and Guiche knows perfectly well tha 
I regard him as a most finished cavalier.” 

“Well, since that is decided, I resume. You have been in the princess’s 
society, count, for the last eight days, have you not ca 

“Yes.” replied De Guiche, colouring in spite of himself. 

“ Well, then, tell us frankly, what do you think of her personal appear- 


\” 


- ance ?” 


“ Of her personal appearance ?” returned De Guiche, stupefied. 
“Ves; of her appearance, of her mind, of herself, in fae” 
Astounded by this question, De Guiche hesitated answering. 

“ Come, come, De Guiche,” resumed the chevalier, laughingly, “tell us 
your opinion frankly, the prince commands it.” _ wee 

“Ves, yes,” said the prince, “ be frank.” ) 

De-Guiche stammered out a few unintelligible words. 

“Tam perfectly well aware,” returned Monsieur, “ that the subject is a 
delicate one, but you know you can tell me everything. What do you 
think of her ?” | 

In order to avoid betraying his real thoughts, De Guiche had recourse 
to the only defence which a man taken by surprise really has, and accord- 
ingly told an untruth. “I do not find Madame,” he said, “either good or 
bad looking, yet rather good than bad looking.” 

“What! count,” exclaimed the chevalier, “you, who went into such 
ecstasies, and uttered so many exclamations at the sight of her portrait.” 

De Guiche coloured violently. Very fortunately his horse, which was 
slightly restive, enabled him by a sudden plunge to conceal his agitation. 
“ What portrait ?” he murmured, joining them again. The chevalier had 
not taken his eyes off him. . 

“Ves, the portrait. Was not the miniature a good likeness?” 

“T do notremember. I have forgotten the portrait ; it has quite escaped 
my recollection.” 

“And yet it made a very marked impression upon you,” said the 
chevalier. 

“ That is not unlikely.” 

“Is she clever, at all events ?” inquired the duke. 

“‘T believe so, my lord.” 

“Ts M. de Buckingham so too ?” said the chevalier. 

“JT do not know.” 

“My own opinion is that he must be,” replied the chevalier, “for h 
makes Madame laugh, and she seems to take no little pleasure in hi 
society, which never happens to a clever woman when in the company 0 
a simpleton.” 

“ Of course, then, he must be clever,” said De Guiche, simply. 

At this moment Raoul opportunely arrived, seeing how De Guiche was 
pressed by his dangerous questioner, to whom he addressed a remark, anc 
so changed the conversation. The evtrée was brilliant and joyous. 

The king, in honour of his brother, had directed that the festivities 


WHAT LORRAINE THOUGHT OF MADAME. 307 


ould be on a scale of the greatest magnificence. Madame and her 
ther alighted at the Louvre, where during their exile, they had so 
somily submitted to obscurity, misery, and privations of every descrip- 
m. That palace, which had been so inhospitable a residence for the 
ihappy daughter of Henry IV., the naked walls, the sunken floorings, the 
ilings covered with cobwebs, the vast but broken chimney-places, the 
id hearths on which the charity extended to them by parliament had 
irdly permitted a fire to glow, was completely altered in appearance. 
he richest hangings and the thickest carpets, elistening flagston2s, and 
ctures, with their richly gilded frames ; in every direction could be seen 
indelabras, mirrors, and furniture and fittings of the most sumptuous 
yaracter ; in every direction also were guards of the proudest military 
searing with floating plumes, crowds of attendants and courtiers in the 
atechambers and upon the staircases. In the court-yards, where the 
rass had formerly been accustomed to grow, as if the ungrateful Mazarin 
ad thought it a good idea to let the Parisians perceive, that solitude and 
isorder were, with misery and despair, the proper accompaniments of a 
len monarchy ; the immense court-yards, formerly silent and desolate, 
ere now thronged with courtiers, whose horses were pacing and prancing 
,and fro. The carriages were filled with young and beautiful women, 
tho awaited the opportunity of saluting, as she passed, the daughter of 
jat daughter of France, who, during her widowhood and her exile, had 
ometimes gone without wood for her fire, or bread for her table, whom 
he meanest attendants at the chateau had treated with indifference and 
ontempt. And so, Madame Henrietta once more returned to the Louvre, 
ith her heart more swollen with grief and bitter recollections than her 
laughter, whose disposition was fickle and forgetful, returned to it with 
triumph and delight. She knew but too well that present brilliant reception 
vas paid to the happy mother of a king restored to his throne, and that 
hrone second to none in Europe, while the worse than indifferent reception 
she had before met with was paid to her, the daughter of Henry IV.,as a 
punishment for having been unhappy. After the princesses had been in- 
stalled in their apartments and had rested themselves, the gentlemen who 
had formed their escort having, in like manner, recovered from their 
fatigue, they resumed their accustomed habits and occupations. Raoul 
egan by setting off to see his father, who had left for Blois. He then 
ried to see M. d’Artagnan, who, however, being engaged in the organiza- 
‘on of a military household for the king, could not be found anywhere. 
Bragelonne next sought out De Guiche, but the comte was occupied in a 
ong conference with his tailors and with Manicamp, which consumed his 
hole time. With the Duke of Buckingham he fared still worse, for the 
uke was purchasing horses after horses, diamonds upon diamonds. He 
monopolised every embroiderer, jeweller, and tailor that Paris could boast 
£ Between De Guiche and himself a vigorous contest ensued, invariably 
most courteous one, in which, in order to insure success, the duke was 
ready to spend a million ; while the Maréchal de Grammont had only 
allowed his son 60,000 francs. So Buckingham laughed and spent his 
money. Guiche groaned in despair, and would have shown it more 
violently, had it not been for the advice De Bragelonne gave him. 
“ A million!” repeated De Guiche daily ; “T must submit. Why_will not 
e maréchal advance me a portion of my patrimony °” 
“ Because you will throw it away,” said Raoul. 
| «What canthat matter to him? IfIam to die of-it, I shall die of it, 


ind then I shall need nothing further,” 


398 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 

“ But what need is there to die ?” said Raoul. ; 

“ T do not wish to be conquered in elegance by an Englishman.” 

“ My dear comte,” said Manicamp, “elegance is not a costly commo- 


dity, it is only a very difficult one.” 
a Ves, but “Gifficult things cost a good deal of money, and I have only 


got 60,000 francs.” é i 

“A very embarrassing state of things, truly,” said De Wardes ; “spent 
as much as Buckingham ; there is only 940,000 francs difference. 

‘Where am I to find them #——" Get mo debt.” 

“T am so already.” —“ A greater reason for getting further.” 

Advice like this resulted in De Guiche becoming excited to such an exter 
that he committed extravagances where Buckingham only incurred ex 

enses. The rumour of this extravagant profuseness delighted the heart: 
of all the shopkeepers in Paris; from the hotel of the Duke of Bucking 
ham to that of the Comte de Grammont nothing but wonders was dreamet 
of While all this was going on, Madame was resting herself, and Bra 
gelonne was engaged in writing to Mademoiselle de la Vallitre. He ha 
already despatched four letters, and not an answer to any one of them ha 
been received, when, on the very morning fixed for the marriage ceremon) 
which was to take place in the chapel at the Palais Royal, Raoul, who wa 
dressing, heard his valet announce M. de Malicorne. ‘ What can thi 
Malicorne want with me,” thought Raoul ; and then said to his vale 
“ Let him wait.” 

“Itis a gentleman from Blois,” said the valet. 

“ Admit him at once,” said Raoul, eagerly. 

Malicorne entered as brilliant as a star, and wearing a superb sword b 
his side. After having saluted Raoul most gracefully, he said: “M. ¢ 
Bragelonne, I am the bearer of a thousand compliments from a lady 1 

ou.” 
? Raoul coloured. “From a lady,” said he, “ from a lady of Blois ?” 

“Yes, monsieur ; from Mademoiselle de Montalais.” 

“Thank you, monsieur ; I recollect you now,” said Raoul. “ And wh 
does Mademoiselle de Montalais require of me ?” 

Malicorne drew four letters from his pocket which he offered to Rao 

“My own letters, is it possible ?” he said, turning pale ; “ my lette 
and the seals unbroken ?” | 

“ Monsieur, your letters did not find, at Blois, the person to whom th 
were addressed, and so they are now returned to you.” 

“ Mademoiselle de la Vaillitre has left Blois, then ?” exclaimed Raoul 

“Eight days ago.” 

‘Where is she, then ?” At Paris.” 

“ How was it known that these letters were from me igs 

“ Mademoiselle de Montalais recognized your handwriting and y 
seal,” said Malicorne. 

Raoul coloured and smiled. ‘“ Mademoiselle de Montalais is exce 
ingly amiable,” he said; “ she is always kind and charming.” 

‘Always, monsieur.” 

“Surely she could give me some precise information about Maden 
selle de la Valliére. I could never find her in this immense city.” 

Malicorne drew another packet from his pocket. “You may possi 
find in this letter what you are anxious to learn.” 

Raoul hurriedly broke the seal. The writing was that of Mademois 
Aure, and enclosed were these words -— Paris, Palais Royal. The 
of the nuptial blessing.” 


WHAT LORRAINE THOUGHT OF MADAME. 399 


“ What does this mean ?” inquired Raoul of Malicorne ; “ you probably 
10W ?” 
“J do, monsieur.” 
“ For pity’s sake, tell me, then.”——-“ Impossible, monsieur.” 
“6 Why so ?” 
“ Because Mademoiselle Aure has forbidden me to do so.” 
Raoul looked at his strange companion, and remained silent :—“‘At least, 
1l me whether it is fortunate or unfortunate. 
“ That you will see.” “You are very severe in your reservations.” 
*“ Will you grant me a favour, monsieur ?” said Malicorne. 
“Tn exchange for that you refuse me ?’——*‘ Precisely.” 

What is it ?” 

“ J have the greatest desire to see the ceremony, and I have no ticket 
) admit me, in spite of all the steps I have taken to secure one, Could 
ju get mae admitted 2” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Do me this kindness, then, I entreat.” 

“ Most willingly, monsieur ; come with me.” 

“T am exceedingly indebted to you, monsieur,” said Malicorne. 

*“JT thought you were a friend of M. de Manicamp.” 

“ T am, monsieur ; but this morning I was with him as he was dressing, 
nd I let a bottle of blacking fall over his new dress, and he flew at me 
ith his sword in his hand, so that I was obliged to make my escape. 
“hat is the reason I could not ask him for a ticket ; he would have killed 
i.” 

“T can believe it,” said Raoul. “I know Manicamp is capable of 
illing a man who has been unfortunate enough to commit the crime you 
ave to reproach yourself with in his eyes, but I will repair the mischiefas 
ar as youare concerned ; I will but fasten my cloak, and shall then be 
eady to serve you, not only as a guide, but as an introducer also.” 


CHAPTER LXXXIXx. 
THE SURPRISE OF MADAME DE MONTALAIS. 


ADAME’S marriage was celebrated in the Chapel of the Palais Royal, in 
e presence of a crowd of courtiers, who had been most scrupulously 
lected. However, notwithstanding the marked favour which an in- 
‘tation indicated, Raoul, faithful to his promise to Malicorne, who was 
lo anxious to witness the ceremony, obtained admission for him. After he 
ad fulfilled this engagement, Raoul approached De Guiche, who, as if in 
ontrast with his magnificent costume, exhibited a countenance so utterly 
ast down by intense grief, that the Duke of Buckingham was the only 
ne present who could contend with him as far as extreme pallor and de- 
ction were concerned. 

“Take care, count,” said Raoul, approaching his friend, and preparing 
to support him at the moment the archbishop blessed the married couple. 
In fact, the Prince of Condé was attentively scrutinising these two images 
of desolation, standing like caryatides at either side of the nave of the 
church. The count, consequently, kept a more careful watch over himself. 
. At the termination of the ceremony, the king and queen passed onward 
wards the grand reception-room, where Madame and her suite were to 
i: presented to them. It was remarked that the king, who had seemed 
‘More than surprised at his sister-in-law’s appearance, was most flattering 


4.00 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


in his compliments to her. Again, it was remarked that the queen-mother 
fixing a long and thoughtful gaze upon Buckingham, leaned toward: 
Madame de Motteville as though to ask her, “ Do you not see how muchh 
resembles his father >” and finally it was remarked that Monsieur watchec 
everybody, and seemed very discontented. After the reception of the 
princes and ambassadors, Monsieur solicited the king’s permission t 
present to him, as well as to Madame, the persons belonging to their ney 
household. ' 

“Are you aware, vicomte,” inquired the Prince de Condé of Raou 
‘whether the household has been selected by a person of taste, an 
whether there are any faces worth looking at !” 

““T have not th2 slightest idea, monseigneur,” replied Raoul. 

“Vou affect ignorance, surely.” “In what way, monseigneur ?” 

“You are a friend of De Guiche, who is one of the friends of the prince.’ 

“That may be so, monseigneur ; but the matter having no interest what 
ever for me, | never questioned De Guiche on the subject ; and De Guich' 
on his part, never having been questioned, has .not communicated an 


particulars to me.” “But Manicamp ?” ; 
“Tt is true I saw Manicamp at Havre, and during the journey here, i 


I was very careful to be as little inquisitive towards him as I had been t 
wards De Guiche ; besides, is it likely that Manicamp should know an 
thing of such matters, for he is a person of only secondary importance ?”’ 

“My dear vicomte, do you not know better than that ?” said the princ 
“ Why, it is these persons of secondary importance who, on such occasion: 
have all the influence; and the truth is, that nearly everything has bee 
done through Manicamp’s presentations to De Guiche, and through D 
Guiche to Monsieur.” 

“T assure you, monseigneur, I was completely ignorant of that,” sai 
Raoul, “and what your highness does me the honour to impart is perfect 
new to me.” 

“1 will most readily believe you, although it seems incredible ; beside 
we shall not have long to wait. See, the flying squadron is advancing, < 
good Queen Catherine used to say. ‘Ah, ah! what pretty faces !” 

A bevy of young girls at this moment entered the salon, conducted 
Madame de Navailles, and to Manicamp’s credit be it said, if indeed t 
had taken that part in their selection which the Prince de Condé h 
assigned him, it was a display calculated to dazzle those who, like tl 
prince, could appreciate every charac r and style of beauty. A your 
fair-complexioned girl, from twenty to one-and-twenty years of age, ar 
whose large blue eyes flashed, as she open: 41 them, in the most dazzli 
manner, walked at the head of the band, and was the first presented. 

“Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente,” said Madame de Navailles 
Monsieur, who, as he saluted his wife, repeated, “ Mademoiselle 


Tonnay-Charente.” 
“Ah, ah !” said the Prince de Condé to Raoul, “she seems tolerab 


enough.” | 
“ Ves,” said Raoul, “but has a somewhat haughty style.” 
“Bah! we know these airs very well, vicomte ; three months hence s| 
will be tame enough. But look—that indeed is a pretty face ie 
“Ves,” said Raoul, “and one I am acquainted with.” 
“ Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais,” said Madame de Navailles. T 
name and Christian name were carefully repeated by Monsieur. 
“ Great heavens !” exclaimed Raoul, fixing his bewildered gaze up 
“he entrance-doorway. 


: THE SURPRISE OF MADAME DE MONTALAIS. 4ol 
“Whats the matter ?” inquired the prince ; “was it Mademoiselle Aure 
‘Montalais who made you utter such a ‘Great heavens?” 

‘No, monseigneur, no,” replied Raoul, pale and trembling. 

‘Well, then, if it be not Mademoiselle Aure de Montalais, it is that 
stty blonde who follows her. What beautiful eyes ! She is rather thin, 


t has fascinations without number.” 


i Mademoiselle de la Baume le Blanc | 
wailles ; and, as this name resounded through his whole being, a clou 


med to rise from his breast to his eyes, so that he neither saw nor heard 
ything more ; and the prince, finding him nothing more than a mere 
ho which remained silent under his railleries, moved forward to inspect 
pewnat closer the beautiful girls whom his first glance had already par- 
sularised. 


-“ Louise here ! Louise a maid of honour to Madam 
ad his eyes ndered from 
’ 


which did not suffice to satisfy his reason, wa 
louise to Montalais. The latter had already emancipated herself from 
sr assumed timidity, 


which she only needed for the presentation and for 
oy reverences. 
he corner of the room to which she 


“Mademoiselle de Montalais, from t 
ad retired, was looking with no slight confidence at the different persons 


resent ; and, having discovered Raoul, she amused herself with the pro- 

sund astonishment which her own and her friend’s presence there had 

aused the unhappy lover. Her merry and malicious look, which Raoul 

jed to avoid meeting, and yet which he sought inquiringly from time to 

me, placed Raoul on the rack. As for Louise, whether from natural 

midity, or from any other reason for which Raoul could not account, she 

ept her eyes constantly cast down, and, ‘ntimidated, dazzled, and with 

npeded respiration, she withdrew herself as much as possible aside, un- 

ffected even by the knocks which Montalais gave her with her elbow. 

“he whole scene was a perfect enigma for Raoul, the key to which he 
ould have given anything to obtain. But no one was there who could 
ssist him—not even Malicorne, who, a little uneasy at finding himself in 

ie presence of so many persons of good birth, and not a little discouraged 
ry Montalais’ bantering glances, had described a circle, and by degrees 
ad succeeded in getting a few paces from the prince, behind the group of 
aaids of honour, and nearly within reach of Mademoiselle Aure’s voice, she 
reing the planet around which he, her attendant satellite, seemed com- 
elled to gravitate. As he recovered his self-possession, Raoul fancied he 
ecognised voices on his right hand which were familiar to him, and he 
serceived De Wardes, De Guiche, and the Chevalier de Lorraine, con- 
-ersing together. _It is true they were talking in tones so low, that the 
‘ound of their words could hardly be heard in the vast apartment. To 
speak in that manner from any particular place without bending down, or 
urning round, or looking at the person with whom one might be engaged 
n conversation, is a talent which cannot be immediately acquired in per- 
‘ection by new comers. A long study is needed for such conversations 
which, without a look, gesture, or movement of the head, seemed like the 
-onversations of a group of statues. In fact, in the king’s and the queen’s 
srand assemblies, while their majesties were speaking, and while every one 
present seemed to be listening with the most pro 
= 


ese noiseless conversations took place, in which adulation was not the 
But Raoul was one among others exceedingly clever 


ter of etiquette, that from the movement of the 
the sense of the words. 
26 


de la Valliére !” said Madame de 


e !” murmured Raoul, 


‘revailing feature. 
| this art, so much a mat 
‘os, he was often able to guess 


found silence, some of 


a 


402 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“Who is that Montalais ? inquired De Wardes, “and that La Valliére: 
What country-town have we had sent here ?” 

“Montalais ?” said the chevalier,-“ oh, I know her ; she is a good sort 
of a girl, whom we shall find amusing enough. La Valliére is a charming 
girl, slightly lame.” 

“Ah! bah!” said De Wardes. 

“Do not be absurd, De Wardes, there are.some very characteristic an 
ingenious Latin axioms upon lame ladies.” 

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said De Guiche, looking at Raoul with un 
easiness, “be a little careful, I entreat you.” 

But the uneasiness of the count, in appearance at least, was not needed 
Raoulhad preserved the firmest and most indifferent countenance, althov } 
he had not lost a word that had passed. He seemed to keep an accoun 
of the insolence and licence of the two speakers in order to settle matters 
with them at the earliest opportunity. 

De Wardes seemed to guess what was passing in his mind, and con 
<inued, “‘ Who are these young ladies’ lovers ?” ' 

“‘ Montalais’ lover ?” said the chevalier. 


Y 
\ 


“Yes, Montalais first.” 
“You, I, or De Guiche,—whoever likes, in fact.”—“ And the other F¥¢ 
“ Mademoiselle de la Valli¢re ?’——“ Yes.” \ 


“Take care, gentlemen,” exclaimed De Guiche, anxious to put a stop tc 
De Wardes’ reply, “take care, Madame is listening to us.” 

Raoul thrust his hand up to the wrist into his justaucorps coat in grea’ 
agitation. But the very malignity which he saw was excited against thes: 
poor girls made him take a serious resolution. “ Poor Louise,” he though 
‘““has come here only with an honourable object in view, and under honour 
able protection ; and I must learn what that object is which she has ir 
view, and who it is that protects her.” And following Malicorne’s man: 
ceuvre, he made his way towards the group of the maids of honour. The 
presentations soon terminated. The king, who had done nothing but lool 
at and admire Madame, shortly afterwards left the reception-room, accom 
panied by the two queens. The Chevalier de Lorraine resumed his plac 
beside Monsieur, and, as he accompanied him, insinuated a few drops o 
the poison which he had collected during the last hour, while looking a 
some of the faces in the court, and suspecting that some of their heart 
might be happy. A few of the persons present followed the king as 
quitted the apartment ; but such of the courtiers as assumed an indepen 
dence of character, and professed a gallantry of disposition, began t 
approach the ladies of the court. The prince paid his compliments t 
Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, Buckingham devoted himself: t 
Madame Chalais and to Mademoiselle de Lafayette, whom Madame hac 
already distinguished by her notice, and whom she held in high regard 
As for the Comte de Guiche, who had abandoned Monsieur as soon a: 
he could approach Madame alone, he conversed, with great animation 
with Madame de Valentinois, and with Mesdemoiselles de Crégny and d 
Chatillon. 

Amid these varied political and amorous interests, Malicorne wa: 
anxious to gain Montalais’ attention ; but the latter preferred talking witl 
Raoul, even if it were only to amuse herself with his numerous ques 
tions and his surprise. Raoul had gone direct to Mademoiselle de i 
Valliére, and had saluted her with the profoundest respect, at which Louis 
blushed, and could not say a word. Montalais, however, hurried to he 
assistance, haat z aed 


qos pee | 
ae, Laeslaed FE mS 


THE SURPRISE OF MADAME DE MONTALALS. 60} 


‘Well, monsieur le vicomte, here we are, you see.” | 

“T do indeed see you,” said Raoul, smiling, “and it is exactly because 
you are here, that I wish to ask for some explanation.” 

Malicorne approached the group with his most fascinating smile, 

“Go away, Malicorne ; really, you are exceedingly indiscreet.” At this 
remark Malicorne bit his lips and retired a few steps, without making any 
‘eply. His smile, however, changed its expression, and from its former 
rankness, became mocking in its expression. 

“You wished for an explanation, M. Raoul ?” inquired Montalais. 

“It is surely worth one, I think; Mademoiselle de la Valliére a maid of 
10nour to Madame!” 

“Why should not she be a maid of honour, as well as myself ?” inquired 
Vontalais. 

“Pray accept my compliments, young ladies,” said Raoul, who fancied 
le perceived they were not disposed to answer him in a direct manner. 

“ Your remark was not made ina very complimentary manner, vicomte.” 

“ Mine ?” “ Certainly ; I appeal to Louise.” ’ 

“M. de Bragelonne probably thinks the position is above my condition,” 
aid Louise, hesitatingly. 

y “ Assuredly not,” replied Raoul eagerly ; “you know very well that such 
s not my feeling ; were you called upon to occupy a queen’s throne, I 
hould not be surprised ; how much greater reason, then, such a position 
s this? The only circumstance which amazes me, is, that I should have 
sarned it to-day, and that only by mere accident.” 

_“ That is true,” replied Montalais, with her usual giddiness, “you know 
othing about it, and there no reason why you should. M. de Brage- 
mne had written several 1-tters to you, but your mother was the only per- 
on who remained behind at Blois, and it was necessary to prevent these 
‘tters falling into her hands. I intercepted them, and returned them 
) M. Raoul, so that he believed you were still at Blois, while you were 
ere in Paris, and had no idea whatever, indeed, how high you had risen 
| rank.” 

“Did you not inform M. Raoul, as I begged you to do?” 

“Why should I? to give him an opportunity of making some of his 

‘vere remarks and moral reflections, and to undo what we had had so 
uch trouble in getting done ?” 

““ Certainly not.” 

“Am I so very severe, then ?” said Raoul, inquiringly. 


| “ Besides,” said Montalais, “it is sufficient to say that it suited me. I 
as about setting off for Paris—you were away ; Louise was weeping her 
‘es out ; interpret that as you please; I begged a friend, a protector of 
ine, who had obtained the appointment for me, to solicit one for Louise ; 
€ appointment arrived. Louise left in order to get her costume pre- 
‘red; as I had my own ready, I remained behind ; I received your 
‘ters, and returned them to you, adding a few words, promising you a 
tprise. Your surprise is before you, monsieur, and seems to be a fair 
€ enough ; you have nothing more to ask. Come, M. Malicorne, it is 
w time to leave these young people together : they have many things to 
k about ; give me your hand; I trust that you appreciate the honour 
1ich is conferred upon you, M. Malicorne.” 

‘Forgive me,” said Raoul, arresting the giddy girl, and giving to his 
ce an intonation the gravity of which contrasted with that of Montalais ; 


jprgive me, but may I inquire the name of the protector you speak of ; 


\ protection be extended towards you, Mademoiselle Montalais, and 


26—2 


ee esp © = a6 i OR ONE oy { 
404, THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 
for which, indeed, so many reasons exist,” added Raoul, bowing, “I do. 
not see that the same reasons exist why Mademoiselle de la Vallitre’’ 


should be similarly protected.” Ie 
“But, M. Raoul,” said Louise, innocently, “there 1s no difference in the 


matter, and I do not see why I should not tell it you myself; it was Me 8 
Malicorne who obtained it for me.” — 5 
Raoul remained for a moment almost stupefied, asking himself if they-4 
were trifling with him; he then turned round to interrogate Malicorne, : 
but he had been hurried away by Montalais, and was already at some > 
distance from them. Mademoiselle de la Vallitre attempted to follow her 
friend, but Raoul, with gentle authority, detained her. 

“ Louise, one word only, I beg.” | 

“But, M. Raoul,” said Louise, blushing, “ we are alone. ‘Every one has 
left. They will become anxious, and will be looking for us.” 

“ Fear nothing,” said the young man, smiling, “ we are neither of suffi- 
cient importance for our absence to be remarked.” | 
. “But I have my duty to perform, M. Raoul.” 

“Do not be alarmed, I am acquainted with the usages of the court ;) 
you will not be on duty until to-morrow, a few minutes are at your dis- 
posal, which will enable you to give me the information I am about {g 
have the honour to ask you.” YY 

“ How serious you are, M. Raoul !” said Louise. 

“Because the circumstance is a serious one. “Are you listening: 

“T am listening ; I would only repeat, monsieur, that we are quite alone, 

“You are right,” said Raoul, and, offering her his hand, he led thi, 
young girl into the gallery adjoining the reception-room, the windows 
which looked out upon the court-yard. Every one hurried towards thi 
middle window, which had a balcony outside, from which all the detail: 
of the slow and formal preparations for departure could be seen. Raou 
opened one of the side windows, and then, being alone with Louise, saic 
to her: “ You know, Louise, that from my childhood I have regarded yot 
as my sister, as one who has been the confidant of all my troubles, t) 
whom I have entrusted all my hopes.” 

“Yes, M. Raoul,” she answered, softly ; “yes, M. Raoul, I know that.’ 

“You used, on your side, to show the same friendship towards me, an 
had the same confidence in me ; why have you not, on this occasion, be 
my friend, and why have you shown a suspicion of me ?” 

Mademoiselle de la Vallitre did not answer. “| had thought you lov 
me,” said Raoul, whose voice became more and more agitated ; “Tha 
thought that you had consented to all the plans which we had, togethe} 
laid down for our own happiness, at the time when we wandered up ar 
duwn the large walks of Cour-Cheverny, and under the avenue of popla: 
trees leading to Blois. You do not answer me, Louise.” 

“Ts it possible,” he inquired, breathing with difficulty, “that you i 
longer love me ?” 

“T did not say so,” replied Louise, softly. 

Oh! tell me the truth, I implore you ; all my hopes in life are centred 

you, I chose you for your gentle and simple tastes. Do not suffer you 
self to be dazzled, Louise, now that you are in the midst of a court wh 
all that is pure becomes corrupt—where all that is young soon grows 0} 
Louise, close your ears, so as not to hear what may be said; shut yc 
eyes, so as not to see the examples before you ; shut your lips, that y 
may not inhale the corrupting influences about you. Without falseh 

or subterfuge, Louise, am I to believe what Mademoiselle de Montal} 


) 
f 
) 


| 
{ 


THE SURPRISE OF MADAME DE MONTALAIS. 405 
tatec? Louise, did you come to Paris because I was no longer at 
3lois ” 

La Valli¢re blushed and concealed her face in her hands. 

“Yes, it was so, then,” exclaimed Raoul, delightedly, “that was, then, 
our reason for coming here. I love you as I never yet loved you. 
Chanks, Louise, for this devotedness ; but measures must be taken to 
lace you beyond all insult, to secure you from every harm; Louise, a 
naid of honour, in the court of a young princess in these times of freedom 
f manners and inconstant affections—a maid of honour is placed as an 
»bject of attack without having any means of defence afforded her ; this 
itate of things cannot continue ; you must be married in order to be re- 
ipected.” 

“* Married ?” 

“Yes, there is my hand, Louise, will you place your hand within it ?” 

“ But your father ?”——“ My father leaves me perfectly free.” 

a4 of) 

“T understand your scruples, Louise, I will consult my father.” 

“Reflect, M. Raoul, wait.” 

“Wait ! it is impossible ; reflect, Louise, when you are concerned, it 
vould be insulting to you; give me your hand, dear Louise, I am my own 
naster ; my father will consent, I know ; give me your hand, do not keep 
ne waiting thus ; one word in answer, one word only ; if not, I shall begin 
o think that, in order to change you for ever, nothing more was needed 
han a single step in the palace, a single breath of favour, a smile from the 
jueen, a single look from the king.” 

Raoul had no sooner pronounced this latter word, than La Valliére be- 
‘ame as pale as death, no doubt from her fear at seeing the young man 
excite himself. With a movement as rapid as thought, she placed both 
ier hands in those of Raoul, and then fled without adding a syllable ; dis- 
‘ppeared without casting a look behind her. Raoul felt his whole frame 
remble at the contact of her hand ; he received the compact as a solemn 
‘ompact wrung by affection from her childlike timidity. 


CHAPTER AC: 
THE CONSENT OF ATHOS. 


XAOUL had quitted the Palais Royal full of ideas which admitted of no 
lelay in their execution. He mounted his horse in the courtyard, and 
ollowed the road to Blois, while the marriage festivities of Monsieur and 
he princess of England were being celebrated with great animation by 
he courtiers, but to the great despair of De Guiche and Buckingham. 
Xaoul lost no time on the road, and in sixteen hours he arrived at Blois. 
As he travelled along, he arranged his arguments in the best manner. 
“ever also is an argument that cannot be answered, and Raoul had an 
ittack of fever. Athos was in his study, making some additions to his 
nemoirs, when Raoul entered, accompanied by Grimaud. Keen-sighted 
ind penetrating, a mere glance at his son told him that something extra- 
ordinary had befallen him. 

_ “You seem to have come on some matter of great importance,” said he 
jo Raoul, after he had embraced him, and pointing to a seat. 

_ “Yes, monsieur,” replied the young man ; “and I entreat you to give 
ne that same kind attention which has never yet failed me,” 

| “Speak, Raoul,” 


, 


406 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, © | 


“T present the case to you, monsieur, free from all preface, for tha 
would be unworthy of you. Mademoiselle de la Vallitre is in Paris aj. 
one of Madame’s maids of honour. I have pondered deeply on thet 
matter ; I love Mademoiselle de la Valligre above everything ; and it ig 

ot proper to leave her ina position where her reputation, her virtue even, 
may be exposed. It is my wish, therefore, to marry her, monsieur, and [, 
have come to solicit your consent to my marriage.” 

While this communication was being made to him, Athos had main- 
tained the profoundest silence and reserve. Raoul, who had begun his 
address with an assumption of self-possession, finished it by allowing a 
manifest emotion to escape him at every word. Athos fixed upon Brage- 
lonne a searching look, overshadowed indeed by a slight sadness. | 

“You have reflected well upon it ?” he inquired.—“ Yes, monsieur.” 

“JT believe you have already been made acquainted with my views re- 
specting this alliance ?” | 

“Yes monsieur,” replied Raoul, in a low tone of voice; “but you 
added, that if I persisted ——” “Vou do insist, then 2” | 

Bragelonne stammered out an almost unintelligible assent. 

“Your passion,” continued Athos, tranquilly, “must, indeed, be very 
great, since, notwithstanding my dislike to this union, you persist in sal 
ing it.” 

Raoul passed his trembling hand across his forehead to remove the 
perspiration which had collected there. Athos looked at him, and his 
heart was touched by pity for him. He then rose, and.said : 

“Tt is no matter ; my own personal feelings are indifferent, since yours 
are concerned ; you need my assistance, I am ready to giveit; tell me 
what you want.” 

“Vour kind indulgence, first of all, monsieur,” said Raoul, taking hol¢ 
of his hand. 

“You have mistaken my feelings, Raoul ; I have more than mere in 
dulgence for you in my heart.” 

Raoul kissed as devotedly as a lover could have done the hand he helc 
in his own. 

“Come, come,” said Athos, “I am quite ready ; what do you wish me 
to sign ?” 

“Nothing whatever, monsieur ; only it would be very kind if you woulc 
take the trouble to write to the king, to whom I belong, and solicit hi: 
majesty’s permission for me to marry Mademoiselle de la Valliére.” 

“ Well thought, Raoul ; after, or rather before myself, you have a maste 
to consult, that master being the king ; it is loyal in you to submit your 
self voluntarily to this double proof; I will grant your request withou 
delay, Raoul.” 

The count approached the window, and, leaning out, called to Grimaud 
who showed his head from an arbour covered with jasmine, which hi 
was occupied in trimming. 

“My horses, Grimaud,” continued the count. 

‘Why this order, monsieur 2” inquired Raoul. 

‘We shall set off in a few hours.” “Whither ?” 

“For Paris.” “Paris, monsieur ?” 

“Ts not the king at Paris ?” “Certainly.” 

“Well, ought we not to go there !” 

_“ Yet, monsieur,” said Raoul, almost alarmed by this kind condesce 
sion, “I do not ask you to put yourself to such inconvenience, and 
letter merely ” 


THE CONSENT OF ATHOS. 407 


“You mistake my position, Raoul; it is not respectful that a simple 
gentleman such as I am, should write to his sovereign. I wish to speak, 
and I ought to speak, to the king, andI willdo so. We will go together, 
» Raoul.” 

“You overpower me with your kindness, monsieur.” 

“How do you think his majesty is affected ?” 

© Towards me, monsieur ?’———“ Yes.” 

, “Excellently well disposed.” — 

~ ‘You know that to be so?’ continued the count. 

an “ The king has himself told me so.”———“ On what occasion ?” 
toy‘ Upon the recommendation of M. d’Artagnan, I believe, and on ac- 
n@unt of an affair in the Place de Gréve, when I had the honour to draw 
Hy sword in the king’s service. I have reason to believe that, vanity 
}apart, I stand well with his majesty.” 

“*So much the better.” 

“ But I entreat you, monsieur,” pursued Raoul, “not to maintain towards 
me your present grave and serious manner. Do not make me bitterly 
regret having listened to a feeling stronger than anything else.” 

“That is the second time you have said so, Raoul ; it was quite unne- 
fcessary ; you require my formal consent, and you have it. We need talk 
‘no more on the subject, therefore. Come and see my new plantations, 
Raoul.” 

The young man knew very well, that, after the expression of his father’s 
wish, no opportunity of discussion was left him. He bowed his head, 
and followed his father into the garden. Athos slowly pointed out to 
-him the grafts, the cuttings, and the avenues he was planting. This per- 

fect repose of manner disconcerted Raoul extremely ; the affection with 
which his own heart was filled seemed so great that the whole world 
could hardly contain it. How, then, could his father’s heart remain void, 
| and closed to its influence? Bragelonne, thereupon, collecting all his con- 
‘rage, suddenly exclaimed : 

' “Tt is impossible, monsieur, you can have any reason to reject Mademoi- 
selle de la Valli¢re ; in Heaven’s name, she is so good, so gentle and 
pure, that your mind, so perfect in its penetration, ought to appreciate her 
accordingly. Does any secret repugnance, or an hereditary dislike, exist 
‘between you and her family?” 

“ Look, Raoul, at that beautiful lily of the valley,” said Athos ; “ ob- 
serve how the shade and the damp situation suit it, particularly the shadow 
which that sycamore-tree casts over it, so that the warmth, and not the 
blazing heat of the sun filters through its branches.” 
| Raoul stopped, bit his lips, and then, with the blood mantling in his 
face, he said, courageously,—“ One word of explanation, I beg, monsieur. 
yYou cannot forget that your son is a man.” 

* “Tn that case,” replied Athos, drawing himself up with sternness, 
“prove to me that you are a man, for you do not show yourself to bea 
son. I begged you to wait the opportunity of forming an illustrious 
alliance. I should have obtained a wife for you from the first ranks of 
the rich nobility. I wish you to be distinguished by the splendour which 
glory and fortune confer, for nobility of descent you have already.” 

_ ™ Monsieur,” exclaimed Raoul, carried away by a first impulse, ‘I was 
\reproached the other day for not knowing who my mother was.” 

Athos turned pale ; then knitting his brows like the greatest of the 
‘heathen deities :—“I am waiting to learn the reply you made,” he de- 
ee in an imperious manner, 


408 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“ Forgive me! oh, forgive me !” murmured the young man, sinking at 
once from the lofty tone he had assumed. 

“What was your reply, monsieur?” inquired the count, stamping his 
foot upon the ground. 

“Monsieur, my sword was in my hand immediately, my adversary 
placed himself on guard, I struck his sword over the palisade, and threw 
him after it.” 

“ Why did you suffer him to live ?” ; 

“The king has prohibited duelling, and, at that moment, I was an am-_ 
bassador of the king.” ‘¥ 

“Very well,” said Athos, “but the greater reason I should see Hse 
majesty.” Wi 

“What do you intend to ask him ?” « 

“ Authority to draw my sword against the man who has inflicted this 
injury upon me.” 

“Tf I did not act as I ought to have done, I beg you to forgive me.” 

“Did I reproach you, Raoul ?” 

“Still, the permission you are going to ask from the king ?” 

“T will implore his majesty to sign your marriage-contract, but on one- 
condition.” 

“ Are conditions necessary with me, monsieur? Command, and you 
shall be obeyed.” 

“On one condition, I repeat,” continued Athos ; “ that you tell me the 
name of the man who spoke of your mother in that way.” 

“ What need is there that you should know his name ; the offence was 
Girected against myself, and the permission once obtained from his 
majesty, to revenge it is my affair.” 

“Tell me his name, monsieur ?” i 

“T will not allow you to expose yourself.” 

“ Do you take me for a Don Diego! His name, I say a 

“You insist upon it?” “ T demand it.” 

‘The Vicomte de Wardes.” 

“ Very well,” said Athos, tranquilly, “I know him. But our horses are 
ready, I see ; and, instead of delaying our departure fora couple of hours, 
we will set off at once. Come monsieur.” | 


CHAPTER XGL 
MONSIEUR BECOMES JEALOUS OF THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM. 


WHILE the Comte de la Fére was proceeding on his way to Paris, accom 
panied by Raoul, the Palais Royal was the theatre wherein a scene o 
what Moliére would have called excellent comedy, was being performed. 
Four days had elapsed since his marriage, and Monsieur, having break- 
fasted very hurriedly, passed into his antechamber, frowning and_ out o 
temper. Therepast had not been over-agreeable. Madame had had breakfast 
served in her own apartment, and Monsieur had breakfasted almost alone: 
the Chevalier de Lorraine and Manicamp were the only persons present 
at the meal, which had lasted three-quarters of an hour without a single 
syllable having been uttered. Manicamp, who was less intimate with hi 
royal highness than the Chevalier de Lorraine, vainly endeavoured t 
detect, from the expression of the prince’s face, what had made him so ill 
humoured. The Chevalier de Lorraine, who had no occasion to speculat 
about anything, inasmuch as he knew all, ate his breakfast with that ex 

| 


iI 


MONSIEUR BECOMES JEALOUS. 409 


traordinary appetite which the troubles of one’s friends afford us, and 
enjoyed at the same time both the ill-humour of Monsieur and the vexa- 
tion of Manicamp. He seemed delighted, while he went on eating, to 
detain the prince, who was very impatient to move, still at table. Mon- 
sieur at times repented the ascendancy which he had permitted the Cheva- 
lier de Lorraine to acquire over him, and which exempted the latter from 
any observance of etiquette towards him. Monsieur was now in one of 
those moods, but he dreaded as much as he liked the chevalier, and con- 
tented himself by indulging his anger without betraying it. Every now 
and then Monsieur raised his eyes to the ceiling, then lowered them 
towards the slices of fé/é which the chevalier was attacking ; and finally, 
not venturing to.betray his anger, he gesticulated in a manner which 
Harlequin might have envied. At last, however, Monsieur could control 
himself no longer, and at the dessert, rising from the table in excessive 
wrath, as we have related, he left the Chevalier de Lorraine to finish his 
breakfast as he pleased. Seeing Monsieur rise from the table, Manicamp, 
napkin in hand, rose also. Monsieur ran, rather than walked, towards 
the antechamber, where, noticing an usher in attendance, he gave him 

me directions in a low tone of voice. Then, turning back again, butavoiding 
passing through the breakfast apartment, he crossed several rooms, with 
the intention of seeking the queen mother in her oratory, where she usually 
remained. 

It was about ten o’clock in the morning. Anne of Austria was engaged 
in writing as monsieur entered. The queen-mother was extremely attached 
to her son, for he was handsome in person and amiable in disposition. 
He was, in fact, more affectionate, and it might be more effeminate 
than the king. He pleased his mother by those trifling sympathizing 
attentions which all women are glad to receive. Anne of Austria, who 
would have been rejoiced to have had a daughter, almost found in this, 
her favourite son, the attentions, solicitude, and playful manners of a child 
of twelve years ofage. All the time he passed with his mother he employed 
in admiring her arms, in giving his opinion upon her cosmetics, and re- 
ceipts for compounding essences, in which she was very particular ; and 
then, too, he kissed her hands and eyes in the most endearing and child- 
like manner, and had always some sweetmeats to offer her, or some new style 
of dress to recommend. Anne of Austria loved the king, or rather the 
regal power in her eldest son; Louis XIV. represented legitimacy by divine 
right. With the king, her character was that of the queen-mother, with 
Philip she was simply the mother. The latter knew that, of all places of 
refuge, a mother’s heart is the most compassionate and the surest. When 
quite a child, he always fled there for refuge when he and his brother 
quarrelled ; often, after having struck him, which constituted the crime of 
high treason on his part, after certain engagements with hands and nails, 
in which the king and his rebellious subject indulged in their night-dresses 
respecting the right to a disputed bed, having their servant Laporte as 
umpire,—Philip, the conqueror, but terrified at his victory, used to flee to 
his mother to obtain reinforcements from her, or at least the assurance of 
a forgiveness, which Louis XIV. granted with difficulty, and after an in- 
terval. Anne. from this habit of peaceful intervention, had succeeded in 
arranging the different disputes of both her sons, and in sharing, at the 
ame time, all their secrets. The king, somewhat jealous of that maternal 
bolicitude which was bestowed particularly upon his brother, felt disposed 
\o show towards Anne of Austria more submission and attachment than his 
Nharacter really possessed, Anne of Austria had adopted this line of con- 


410 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. | 


duct especially towards the young queen. In this manner she ruled with 

almost despotic sway over the royal household, and she was already pre- | 
paring all her batteries to rule with the ‘same absolute authority over the 
household of her second son. Anne experienced almost a feeling of pride 

whenever she saw any one enter her apartments with woe-begone looks, 

pale cheeks, or red eyes, gathering from appearances that assistance was. 
required either by the weakest or by the most rebellious. She was writing, 

we have said, when Monsieur entered her oratory, not with red eyes or 

pale cheeks, but restless, out of temper, and annoyed. With an absent air he 

kissed his mother’s arms, and sat himself down before receiving her permis- 

sion to do so. Considering the strict rules of etiquette established at the 

court of Anne of Austria, this forgetfulness of customary respect was a sign 

of preoccupation, especially on Philip’s part,who, of his own accord, observed 

a respect towards her ofa some what exaggerated character. If, therefore, he 

so notoriously failed with regard to such principles of respect, there must 

surely be a serious cause for it. “What is the matter, Philip ” inquired 

Anne of Austria, turning towards her son. 

“ A great many things,” murmured the prince, in a doleful tone of voice. 

“You look like a man who has a great deal to do,” said the queen, laying 
down her pen. Philip frowned, but did not reply. “Among the various 
subjects which occupy your mind,” said Anne of Austria. “there must 
surely be one which occupies it more than others.” 

“ One indeed has occupied me more than any other.” 

“Well, what is it? I am listening.” 

Philip opened his mouth as if to express all the troubles his mind was 
filled with, and which he seemed to be waiting only for an opportunity to 
declare what they were. But he suddenly became silent, and a sigh alone 
expressed all that his heart was filled with. “Come, Philip, show a little 
firmness,” said the queen-mother. ‘When one has to complain of any- 
thing, it is generally an individual who is the cause of it. Am I not right?” 

“ T do not say no, madame.” 

“ Whom do you wish to speak about? Come, take courage.” 

“In fact, madame, what I might possibly have to say must be kept a 
perfect secret ; for when a lady is in the case a 

“ Ah! you're speaking of Madame, then ?” inquired the queen-mother, 
with a feeling of the liveliest curiosity. Yes." 

“Well, then, if you wish to speak of Madame, do not hesitate to do so. 
I am your mother, and she is no more than a stranger to me. Yet, as she 
is my daughter-in law, be assured I shall be interested, even were it for 
your own sake alone, in hearing all you may have to say about her.” 

“Pray tell me, madame, in your turn, whether you have not remarked 
something ?” i 

“Something ! Philip? Your words almost frighten me from their wan 
of meaning. What do you mean by something !” 

“ Madame is pretty, certainly.” “ No doubt of it.” 

“Yet not altogether beautiful.” | 

“ No, but as she grows older she will probably become very strikingh 
beautiful. You must have remarked the change which a few years hav 
already made in her. Her beauty will improve more and more ; she ]j 
now only sixteen years of age. At fifteen I was, myself, very thin ; b 
even as she is at present, Madame is very pretty.” 

“ And consequently others may have remarked it.” 

“ Undoubtedly, for a woman of ordinary rank is remarked, and with sti 
ereater reason a princess.” | 


MONSIEUR BECOMES JEALOUS, AER 


“She has been well brought up, I suppose ?” 

“Madame Henrietta, her mother, is a woman somewhat cold in her 
manner, slightly pretentious, but full of noble thoughts. The princess’s 
education may have been neglected, but her principles I believe to be good. 
Such, at least, was the opinion I formed of her when she resided in France; 
but she afterwards returned to England, and I am ignorant of what may 
have occurred there.” 

“What do you mean ?” 

“Simply that there are some heads naturally giddy, which are easily 
turned by prosperity.” 

“That is the very word, madame. I think the princess rather giddy.” 

“We must not exaggerate, Philip ; she is clever and witty, and has a 
certain amount of coquetry very natural in a young woman ; but this de- 
fect is, in persons of high rank and position, a great advantage at a court. 
A princess, who is tinged with coquetry, usually forms a brilliant court 
around her ; her smile stimulates luxury, and arouses wit, and even cour- 
age ; the nobles, too, fight better for a prince whose wife is beautiful.” 

“Thank you extremely, madame,” said Philip, with some temper ; “you 
really have drawn some very alarming pictures for me.” 

Y * In what respect ?” asked the queen, with pretended simplicity. 

“You know, madame,” said Philip, dolefully, “ whether I had or had not 
a very great dislike to getting married.” 

“* Now, indeed, you alarm me; you have some serious cause of complaint 
against Madame ?” 

“*T do not precisely say it is serious.” 

“In that case, then, throw aside your present mournful looks. If you 
show yourself to others in your present state, people will take you for a 
very unhappy husband.” 

“The fact is,” replied Philip, “I am not altogether satisfied as a hus- 
band, and I shall be glad that others should know it.” 

“For shame, Philip !” 

“Well, then, madame, I will tell you frankly that I do not understand 
the life I am required to lead.” 

“ Explain yourself.” 

“My wife does not seem to belong to me ; she is always leaving me for 
some reason or another. In the mornings there are visits, correspond- 
ences, and toilettes ; in the evenings, balls and concerts.” 

“You are jealous, Philip.” 

“T! Heaven forbid! Let others act the part of a jealous husband— 
not I; but I am annoyed.” 

“All those things you reproach your wife with are perfectly innocent, 
and so long as you have nothing of greater importance—yet, listen : with- 
out being very blamable, a woman can excite a good deal of uneasiness ; 
certain visitors may be received, certain preferences shown, which expose 
young women to remark, and which are enough to drive out of their senses 
even those husbands who are least disposed to be jealous.” 

“ Ah! now we are coming to the real point at last, and not without some 
difficulty, too. You speak of frequent visits, and certain preferences—very 
good ; for the last hour we have been beating about the bush, and at last 
you have broached the true question.” 

_ “This is more serious than I thought. Is it possible, then, that Madame 
can have given you grounds for these complaints against her ?” 
“Precisely so.” 

“What! your wife, married only four days ago, prefer some other person 


412 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


to yourself? Take care, Philip, you exaggerate your grievances ; in wish- 
ing to prove everything, you prove nothing.” 

The prince, bewildered by his mother’s serious manner, wished to reply, 
but he could only stammer out some unintelligible words. 

“You draw back, then ?” said Anne of Austria. “I prefer that, as it is 
an acknowledgment of your mistake.” 

“No ” exclaimed Philip, “I do not draw back, and I will prove all I 
asserted. I spoke of preference and of visits, did I not? Well, listen to 
them.” 

Anne of Austria prepared herself to listen with that love of gossip which 
the best woman living and the best mother, were she a queen even, always 
finds in being mixed up_ ith the petty squabbles of a household. 

“Well,” said Philip, “tell me one thing.” “ What is that ?” 

“Why does my wife retain an English court about her ?” said Philip, as 
he crossed his arms and looked his mother steadily in the face, as if he 
were convinced that she could not answer the question. 

“ For a very simple reason,” returned Anne of Austria- -‘‘ because the 
English are her countrymen, because they have expended large sums in 
order to accompany her to France, and because it would be hardly polite 
—not good policy, certainly—to dismiss abruptly those members of they 
English nobility who have not shrunk from any devotion or from aa 
sacrifice.” 

“ A wonderful sacrifice, indeed,” returned Philip, “to desert a wretched 
country to come to a beautiful one, where a greater effect can be produced 
for one crown than can be procured elsewhere for four! Extraordinary 
devotion, really, to travel a hundred leagues in company with a woman 
one is in love with !” 

“In love, Philip! Think what you are saying. Who is in love with 
Madame ?” 

“The handsome Duke of Buckingham. Perhaps you will defend him 
as well?” 

Anne of Austria blushed and smiled at the same time. The name of 
the Duke of Buckingham recalled certain recollections to her of a tender 
and melancholy nature. ‘The Duke of Buckingham |” she murmured. 
“Yes; one of those feather-bed soldiers -~-” 

“The Buckinghams are loyal and brave,” said Anne of Austria, 
courageously. 

“ This is too bad! my own mother takes the part of my wife’s lover 
against me !” exclaimed Philip, incensed to such an extent that his weak 
organisation was affected almost to tears. 

“ Philip, my son,” exclaimed Anne of Austria, “such an expression is 
unworthy of you! Your wife has no lover ; and, had she one, it would 
not be the Duke of Buckingham. The members of that family, I repeat, 
are loyal and discreet, and the rights of hospitality are sure to be respected 
by them.” 

“The Duke of Buckingham is an Englishman, madame,” said Philip, 
“and may I ask if the English so very religiously respect what belongs to 
princes of France ?” 

Anne blushed a second time, and turned aside under the pretext of 
taking her pen from her desk again, but really to conceal her blushes rrom 
her son. ‘Really, Philip,” she said, “‘ you seem to discover expression 
for the purpose of embarrassing me, and your anger blinds you while i 
alarms me. Reflect a little.” 

“ There is no need of reflection, madame, for I see with my own eyes.” 

Well, and what do you see?” 


MONSIEUR. BECOMES JEALOUS. 413 


“ That Buckingham never quits my wife. He presumes to make presents 
to her, and she ventures to accept them. Yesterday she was talking about 
sachets d la violette,; well, our French perfumers, you know very well, 
madame, for you have over and over again asked for it without success— 
our French perfumers, I say, have never been able to procure this scent. 
The duke, however, wore about him a sachet a /a violette, and 1 am sure 
that the one my wife has came from him.” 

“Indeed, monsieur,” said Anne of Austria, “you build your pyramids 
upon needle-points ; be careful. What harm, I ask you, can there be in 
aman giving to his countrywoman a receipt for a new essence? These 
strange ideas, I protest, painfully recall your father to me—he who so fre- 
quently and so unjustly made me suffer.” 

“The Duke of Buckingham’s father was probably more reserved and 
more respectful than his son,” said Philip, thoughtlessly, not perceiving 
how deeply he had wounded his mother’s feelings. The queen turned 
pale, and pressed her clenched hand upon her bosom ; but, recovering 
herself immediately, she said, “ You came here with some intention or 
another, I suppose ?” 

“ Certainly.” —- “‘ What was it ?” 

“I came, madame, intending to complain energetically, and to inf¢ 

Bon that I will not submit to anything from the Duke of Buckingham 

“What do you intend to do, then ?” 

“IT shall complain to the king.” 

“And what do you expect the king to reply ?” 

“ Very well, then,” said Monsieur, with an expression of stern determ 
tion on his countenance, which offered a singular contrast to its usu 
gentleness. “Very well. I will right myself!” 

“What do you call righting yourself?” inquired Anne of Austria, in 
alarm. 

“T will have the Duke of Buckingham quit the princess, I will have him 
quit France, and I will see that my wishes are intimated to him.” 

“You will intimate nothing of the kind, Philip,” said the queen, “ for if 
you act in that manner, and violate hospitality to that extent, I will invoke 
the severity of the king against you.” 

“Do you threaten me, madame ?” exclaimed Philip, in tears ; “do you 
threaten me in the midst of my complaints ?” 

“I do not threaten you ; I do but place an obstacle in the path of your 
hasty anger. I maintain, that, to adopt towards the Duke of Buckingham, 
or any other Englishman, any rigorous measure—to take even a discourteous 
step towards him, would be to hurry France and England into the saddest 
variances. Can it be possible that a prince of the blood, the brother of 
the king of France, does not know how to hide an injury, even did it exist 
in reality, where political necessity requires it?’ Philip made a move- 
ment. ‘ Besides,” continued the queen, “‘the injury is neither true nor 
possible, and it is merely a matter of silly jealousy.” 

“ Madame, I know what I know.” 

“ Whatever you may know, I can only advise you to be patient.” 

“T am not patient by disposition, madame.” 

The queen rose, full of severity, and with an icy ceremonious manner. 
“Explain what you really require, Monsieur,” she said. 

“I do not require anything, madame ; I simply express what I desire. 
If the Duke of Buckingham does not, of his own accord, discontinue his 
Visits to my apartments, I shall forbid him an entrance.” 

“That is a point you will refer to the king,” said Anne of Austria, her 
eart swelling as she spoke, and her voice trembling with emotion. 


414 | THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“But, madame,” exclaimed Philip, striking his hands together, “act 
as my mother and not as the queen, since I speak to you as a son; it is 
simply a matter of a few minutes’ conversation between the duke and 
myself.” 

“It is that conversation that I forbid,” said the queen, resuming her 
authority, “because it is unworthy of you.” 

“Be it so; I shall not appear in the matter, but I shail intimate my will 
to Madame.” 

“ Oh !” said the queen-mother, with a melancholy arising from reflection, 
‘never tyrannize over a wife—never behave too haughtily or imperiously 
towards yours. A woman, unwillingly convinced, is unconvinced.” 

“ What is to be done, then ?—I will consult my friends about it. 

“Ves, your hypocritical advisers, the Chevalier de Lorraine—your De 
‘Wardes. Entrust the conduct of this affair to me. You wish the Duke 
of Buckingham to leave, do you not?” 

* As soon as possible, madame.” 

“Send the duke to me, then; smile upon your wife; behave to ner, 
the king, to every one, as usual. But follow no advice but mine. Alas 
too well know what a household is which is troubled by advisers.” 

“6 Vou shall be obeyed, madame.” . 
| And you will be satisfied at the result. Send the duke to me.” 
That will not be difficult.” 
Where do you suppose him to be ?” 
At my wife’s door, whose /evée he is probably awaiting.” 
Very well,” said Anne of Austria, calmly. “Be good enough to tel 
M* duke that I beg him to come and see me.” 
Philip kissed his mother’s hand, and set off to find the Duke of Buck 


ingham. 


Se eres 


CHAPTER XCII. 
FOR EVER! 


THE Duke of Buckingham, obedient to the queen-mother’s invitation, pre 
sented himself in her apartments half an hour after the departure of t 
Duc @’Orléans. When his name was announced by the gentleman-ush 
in attendance, the queen, who was sitting with her elbow resting on a tabl 
and her head buried in her hands, rose, and smilingly received the grac 
ful and respectful salutation which the duke addressed to her. Anne 
Austria was still beautiful. It is well known that at her then somewh 
advanced age, her long auburn hair, perfectly formed hands, and brig 
ruby lips, were still the admiration of all who saw her. On’ the pres 
occasion, abandoned entirely to a remembrance which evoked all the p 
in her heart, she was as beautiful as in the days of her youth, when 
palace was open to the visits of the Duke of Buckingham’s father, the 
young and impassioned man, as well as an unfortunate one, who lived 
for her alone, and who died with her name upon his lips. Anne of Aust 
fixed upon Buckingham a look so tender in its expression, that it denot 
not alone the indulgence of maternal affection, but a gentleness of expi 
sion like the coquetry of a woman who loves. 

“Your majesty,” said Buckingham, respectfully, “desired to speak to 

“Yes, duke,” said the queen, in English ; “ will you be good enoug 
sit down ?” 

The favour which Anne of Austria thus extended to the young 


Ree SE a rororras, 


FOR EVER! 4is 


and the welcome sound of the language of a country from which the 
duke had been estranged since his stay in France, deeply affected him. 
He immediately conjectured that the queen had a request to make of 
him. After having abandoned the few first moments to the irrepressible 
emotion she experienced, the queen resumed the smiling air with which 
she had received him. “What do you think of France?” she said, in 
‘French. 

“Tt isa lovely country, madame,” replied the duke. 

“ Had you ever seen it before ?”»———“‘ Once only, madame.” 

“ But, like all true Englishmen, you prefer England ?” 

“T prefer my own native land to France,’ replied the duke ; “but if 
your majesty were to ask me which of the two cities, London or Paris, I 
should prefer as a residence, I should reply Paris.” 

Anne of Austria observed the ardent manner with which these words 
had been pronounced. “I am told, my lord, you have rich possessions 
in your own country, and that you live in a splendid and time-honoured 
palace.” 

“Tt was my father’s residence,” replied Buckingham, casting down 
his eyes. 

-, “Those are indeed great advantages and souvenirs,” replied the queen, 
Jluding, in spite of herself, to recollections from which it is impossible 
voluntarily to detach one’s self. 

“In fact,” said the duke, yielding to the melancholy influence of this 
opening conversation, “ sensitive persons live as much in the past or the 
future as in the present.” 

“That is very true,” said the queen, in a low tone of voice. “ It follows, 
then, my lord,” she added, “that you, who are a man of feeling, will soon 

quit France in order to shut yourself up with your wealth and your relics 
of the past.” 

Buckingham raised his head and said, “I think not, madame.” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“On the contrary, I think of leaving England in order to take up my 
residence in France.” 

It was now Anne of Austria’s turn to exhibit surprise. ‘‘ Why ?” she 
said. “Are you not in favour with the new king ?” 

“ Perfectly so, madame, for his majesty’s kindness to me is unbounded.” 

“Tt cannot,” said the queen, “be because your fortune has diminished, 
for it is said to be enormous,” 

“ My fortune, madame, has never been more thriving.” 

“ There is some secret cause, then ?” 

“No, madame,” said Buckingham, eagerly, “there is nothing secret in 

y reason for this determination. I like the residence in France; I like 

court so distinguished by its refinement and courtesy ; I like the amuse- 
ments, somewhat serious in their nature, which are not the amusements of 
my own country, and which are met with in France.” 

Anne of Austria smiled shrewdly. “Amusements of a serious nature ?” 
she said. “Has your grace well reflected on their seriousness?’ The 
duke hesitated. “ There isno amusement so serious,” continued the queen, 
“as should prevent a man of your rank——” 

“Your majesty seems to insist greatly upon that point,” interrupted the 
uke.——“ Do you think so, my lord ?” ; 

“Tf your majesty will forgive me for saying so, it is the second time you 
lave vaunted the attractions of England at the expense of the delight 
vhich all experience who live in France.” 


{ 


416 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, | 


Anne of Austria approached the young man, and placing her beautify; 
hand upon his shoulder, which trembled at the touch, said, “ Believe me 
monsieur, nothing can equal a residence in one’s own native country. |] 
have very frequently had occasion to regret Spain. I have lived long, my 
lord, very long for a woman, and I confess to you, that not a year has 
passed that I have not regretted Spain.” | 

“Not one year, madame?” said the young duke, coldly. “Not one & 
those years when you reigned queen of Beauty—as you still are, indeed ”” 

“* A truce to flattery, duke, for I am old enough to be your mother.” She 
emphasised these latter words in a manner, and with a gentleness, which 
penetrated Buckingham’s heart. “Yes,” she said, “I am old enough to 
be your mother ; and for this reason, I will give you a word of advice.” — 

“That advice being that I should return to London?” he exclaimed. 

“Yes, my lord.” 

The duke clasped his hands with a terrified gesture, which could noi 
fail of its effect upon the queen, already disposed to softer feelings by the 
tenderness of her own recollections. ‘It must be so,” added the queen. | 

“What!” he again exclaimed, ‘“‘am I seriously told that I szust¢ leave. 
—that I must exile myself,—that I am to flee at once ?” 

“‘ Exile yourself, did you say? One would fancy France was your natiyr 
country.” \ 

“Madame, the country of those who love is the country of those whon 
they love.”, : 

“Not another word, my lord; you forget whom you are addressing.” 

Buckingham threw himself on his knees. ‘‘ Madame, you are the source 
of intelligence, of goodness, and of compassion ; you are the first person in 
this kingdom, not only by your rank, but the first person in the world o1 
account of your angelic attributes. I have said nothing, madame. Hav: 
I, indeed, said anything for which you could answer me by such a crue 
remark? Can I have betrayed myself?” 

“You have betrayed yourself,” said the queen, in a low tone of voice. 

“T have said nothing,—I know nothing.” 

“You forget you have spoken and thought in the presence of a woman 
and besides y 

“Besides,” said the duke, “no one knows you are listening to me.” 

“On the contrary, it is known; you have all the defects and all th 
qualities of youth.” 

““T have been betrayed or denounced, then ?” “By whom ?” | 

“ By those who, at Havre, had, with infernal perspicacity, read my hea: 

ike an open book.” 

“T do not know whom you mean.” 

““M. de Bragelonne, for instance.” 

“T know the name without being acquainted with the person to who1 
it belongs. M. de Bragelonne has said nothing.” 

“Whom can it be, then? Ifany one, madame, had had the boldness 1 
notice in me that which I do not myself wish to behold 2 

“What would you do, duke ?” 

“There are secrets which kill those who discover them.” | 

“He, then, who has discovered your secret, madman that you are, sti 
lives ; and, what is more, you will not slay him, for he is armed on a 
sides,—he is a husband, a jealous man,—he is the second gentleman j 
France,—he is my son, the Duc d’Orléans.” 

The duke turned pale as death. “ You are very cruel, madame,” he sai 

“You see, Buckingham,” said Anne of Austria, sadly, “how you pa: 


FOR EVER! 417 


ym one extreme to another, and fight with shadows, when it would seem 
easy to remain at peace with yourself.” 

“If we fight, madame, we die on the field of battle,” replied the young 

an gently, abandoning himself to the most gloomy depression. 

Anne ran towards him and took him by the hand. “Villiers,” she said, 
English, with a vehemence of tone which nothing could resist, “ what is 

you ask? Do you ask a mother to sacrifice her son ;—a queen to con- 

nt to the dishonour of her house? Child that you are, do not think of 
What! in order to spare your tears am I to commit these two crimes ? 

lliers ! you speak of the dead ; the dead, at least, were full of respect 

d submission ; they resigned. themselves to an order of exile ; they 

rried their despair away with them in their hearts, like a priceless pos- 

ssion, because the despair was caused by the woman they loved, and 

cause death, thus deceptive, was like a gift or a favour conferred upon 

3 

om. 

Buckingham rose, his features distorted, and his hands pressed against 

; heart. “You are right, madame ;” he said, “ but those of whom you 

eak had received their order of exile from the lips of the one whom 

2y loved ; they were not driven away ; they were entreated to leave, and 

‘re not laughed at.” 

“ No,” murmured Anne of Austria, “‘they were not forgotten. But who 

ys you are driven away, or that you are exiled? Who says that your 

votion will not be remembered? I donot speak on any one’s behalf 

t my own, when I tell you to leave. Do me this kindness—grant me 

's favour ; let me, for this, also, be indebted to one of your name.” 

“It is for your sake, then, madame ?”>———“ For mine alone.” 

“No one whom I shall leave behind me will venture to mock,—no 

ince, even, who shall say, ‘1 required it.’” 

“ Listen to me, duke,” and hereupon the dignified features of the queen 

sumed a solemn expression. “I swear to you that no.one commands 

this matter but myself. I swear to you that, not only shall no one either 

igh or boast in any way, but no one even shall fail in the respect due to 

ur rank. Rely upon me, duke, as I rely upon you.” 

“You do not explain yourself, madame ; my heart is full of bitterness, 

d I am in utter despair ; no consolation however gentle and affectionate 

a afford me relief.” 

“Do you remember your mother, duke?” replied the queen, with a 

oning smile. 

“Very slightly, madame ; yet I remember how she used to cover me 

ch her caresses and her tears whenever I wept.” 

Villiers,” murmured the queen, passing her arm round the young man’s 

ck, “look upon me as your mother, and believe that no one shall ever 

ike my son weep.” 

“TI thank you, madame,” said the young man, affected and almost suffo- 

ted by his emotion ; “I feel there is indeed still room in my heart for 

rentler and nobler sentiment than love.” 

The queen mother looked at him and pressed his hand. “ Go,” she said. 

“When must I leave? Command me.” 

“Any time that may suit you, my lord,” resumed the queen ; “ you 

1 choose your own day of departure. Instead, however, of setting off 

day, as you would doubtless wish to do, or to-morrow, as others may 

ve expected, leave the day after to- “morrow, in the evening ; but an- 

unce to-day that it is your wish to leave.” 

“ My wish ?” murmured the young duke.-——“ Yes, duke.” 


418 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, ; 


“ And shall I never return to France ;” 

Anne of Austria reflected for a moment, seemingly absorbed in sad and 
gerious thought. “It would be a consolation for me,” she said, “if you 
were to return on the day when I shall be carried to my final resting- 
place at Saint-Denis, beside the king, my husband.” : 

“Madame, you are goodness itself ; the tide of prosperity is setting in, 
on you; your cup brims over with happiness, and many long years are 
yet before you.” | 

‘‘In that case you will not come for some time, then,” said the queen, 
endeavouring to smile. 

“T shall not return,” said Buckingham, “young as Iam. Death does not 
reckon by years ; it is impartial ; some die young, others live on to old age.” 

“TJ will not allow any sorrowful ideas, duke. Let me comfort you: re- 
turn in two years. I perceive from your face that the very ideas which 
sadden you so much now, will have disappeared before six months shall 
have passed, and will be all dead and forgotten in the period of absence I 
have assigned you.” 

“T think you judged me better a little while since, madame,” replied 
the young man, “when you said that time is powerless against members, 
of the family of Buckingham.” A 

* Silence,” said the queen, kissing the duke upon the forehead with axy 
affection she could not restrain. ‘“ Go, go: spare me, and forget yourself 
no longer. I am the queen; you are the subject of the king of apie | 
King Charles awaits your return. Adieu, Villiers,—farewell.” 

“For ever!” replied the young man, and he fled, endeavouring to 
master his emotion. i 

Anne leaned her head upon her hands, and then, looking at herself in 
the glass, murmured, “It has been truly said that a woman is always 
young, and that the age of twenty years always lies concealed in som 
secret corner of the heart.” 


oe eee 


CHAPTER XCIII. 


KING LOUIS XIV. DOES NOT THINK MADEMOISELLE DE LA VALLIER 
EITHER RICH ENOUGH OR PRETTY ENOUGH FOR A GENTLEMAN OF 
THE RANK OF THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE., 


RAOUL and the Comte de la Fére reached Paris the evening of the sam 
day on which Buckingham had had the conversation with the queen 
mother. The count had scarcely arrived, when, through Raoul, he soli 
cited an audience of the king. His majesty had passed a portion of th 
morning in looking over, with madame and the ladies of the court, variou; 
goods of Lyons manufacture of which he had made his sister-in-law 
present. A court dinner had succeeded, then cards, and afterwards, ac 
cording to his usual custom, the king, leaving the card tables at eigh 
o’clock, passed into his cabinet in order to work with M. Colbert and M, 
Fouquet. Raoul entered the ante-chamber at the very moment the tw 
ministers quitted it, and the king, perceiving him through the half-closec 
door, said, “ What do you want, M. de Bragelonne ?” 

The young man approached : “An audience, sire,” he replied, “for the 
Comte de la Fére, who has just arrived ‘from Blois, and is most anxiou' 
to have an interview with your majesty.” 

“T have an hour to spare between cards and my supper,” said the kin 
* Ts the Comte de la Fére ready” ) 


THE KING DISAPPROVES OF THE MATCH. 419 


' He is below, and awaits your majesty’s commands.” 

“Let him come at once,” said the king, and five minutes afterwaras 
hos entered the presence of Louis XIV. He was received by the king 
ch that gracious kindness of manner which Louis, with a tact beyond 
; years, reserved for the purpose of gaining those who were not to be 
aquered by ordinary favours. “Let me hope, comte,” said the king, 
hat you have come to ask me for something.” 

“ T will not conceal from your majesty,” replied the comte, “that I am 
Jeed come for that purpose.” 

“That is well, then,” said the king, joyously. 

“Tt is not for myself, sire.” 

“ So much the worse ; but, at least, I will do for your pro/égé what you 
fuse to permit me to do for you.” 

“Your majesty encourages me. I have come to speak on behalf of the 
icomte de Bragelonne.” 

“It is the same asif you spoke on your own behalf, comte.” 

“ Not altogether-so, sire. I am desirous of obtaining from your majesty 
at which I cannot do for myself. The vicomte thinks of marrying.” 

“ He is still very young ; but that does not matter. He is an eminently 
stinguished man. I will choose a wife for him.” 

“He has already chosen one, sire, and only awaits your majesty’s con- 
nt.” 

“Tt is only a question, then, of signing the marriage contract ?” 
thos bowed. “Has he chosen a wife whose fortune and position accord 
ith your own views ?” 

Athos hesitated fora moment. “His affianced wife is of good birth, but 
as no fortune.” 

“ That is a misfortune which we can remedy.” 

“ You overwhelm me with gratitude, sire ; but your majesty will permit 
e to offer a remark ?” “ Do so comte.” 
“Your majesty seems to intimate an intention of giving a marriage- 
ortion to this young girl ??——“ Certainly.” 

“TI should regret, sire, if the step I have taken towards your majesty 
10uld be attended by this result.” 

“No false delicacy, comte ; what is the bride’s name ?” 

“ Mademoiselle Labaume Le Blanc de la Valliére,” said Athos, coldly. 
“TI seem to know that name,” said the king, as if reflecting ; “ there 
as a Marquis de la Valliére. 

‘Ves, sire, it is his daughter.” 

“But he died, and his widow married again M. de St. Remy, I think, 
teward of the dowager Madame’s household.” 

“ Your majesty is correctly informed.” 

“More than that, the young lady has lately become one of the prin- 
ess’s maids of honour.” 

“Your majesty is better acquainted with her history than I am.” 

The king again reflected, and glancing at the comte’s anxious counten- 
nce, said : “The young lady does not seem to me to be very pretty, comte,.” 

“T am not quite sure,” replied Athos. 

“ T have seen her, but she did not strike me as being so.” 

“ She seems to be a good and modest girl, but has little beauty, sire.” 

“ Beautiful fair hair, however ?’>——“ I think so.” 

“ And her blue eyes are tolerably good ??-—“ Yes, sire.” 

“ With regard to beauty, then, the match is but an ordinary one. Now 
r the money side of the question,” ‘ 

ate 27—2 


420 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“Fifteen to twenty thousand francs dowry at the very outside, sire | 
the lovers are disinterested enough ; for myself, I care little for money.” 

“For superfluity, you mean; but a needful amountis of importance, 
With fifteen thousand francs, without landed property, a woman cannot 
live at court. We will make up the deficiency ; I will do it for De Brage 
lonne.” The king again remarked the coldness with which Athos receivec 
his remark. 

“Let us pass from the question of money to that of rank,” said Louis 
XIV. ; “the daughter of the Marquis de la Valliére, that is well enough 
but there is that excellent St. Rémy, who somewhat damages the credit o 
the family ; and you, comte, are rather particular, I believe, about you 
own family.” 

“ Sire, I no longer hold to anything but my devotion to your majesty.” 

The king again paused. “A moment, comte. You have surprised me 
in no little degree from the beginning of your conversation. Youcame t 
ask me to authorise a marriage, and you seem greatly disturbed in havin; 
to make the request. Nay, pardon me, comte, but I am rarely deceived 
young as I am; for while with some persons I place my friendship at th 
disposal of my understanding, with others I call my distrust to my aid 
by which my discernment is increased. I repeat that you do not ova 
your request as though you wished it success.” 

“ Well, sire, that is true.” 

“T do not understand you, then ; refuse.” 

“Nay, sire; I love De Bragelonne with my whole heart ; he 1 
smitten with Mademoiselle de la Valliére, he weaves dreams of bliss fo 
the future ; I am not one who is willing to destroy the illusions of youth 
This marriage is objectionable to me, but I implore your majesty to con 
sent to it forthwith, and thus make Raoul happy.” | 

“ Tell me comte, is she in love with him ?” 

“If your majesty requires me to speak candidly, I do not believe i 
Mademoiselle de la Vallidre’s affection ; the delight at being at court, th 
honour of being in the service of Madame, counteract in her head wha’ 
ever affection she may happen to have in her heart; itis a matriag 
similar to many others which already exist at court; but De Bragelon 
wishes it, and let it be so.” 

“ And yet you do not resemble those easy-tempered fathers who mak 
slaves of themselves for their children,” said the king. 

“Tam determined enough against the viciously disposed, but not s 
againstmen ofupright character. Raoul is suffering, and is in great distres 
of mind; his disposition, naturally light and cheerful, has become gloom 
and melancholy. I do not wish to deprive your majesty of the services I 
may be able to render.” a 

“T understand you,” said the king ; “and what is more, I understat] 
your heart, too, comte.” ) 

“There is no occasion, therefore,” replied the comte, “ to tell your majes 
that my object is to make these children, or rather Raoul, happy.” | 

“ And I, too, as much as yourself, comte, wish to secure M. de Brag} 
lonne’s happiness.” : 

“T only await your majesty’s signature. Raoul will have the honour | 
presenting himself before your majesty to receive your consent.” 

“You are mistaken, comte,” said the king, firmly ; “1 have just sa 
that I desire to secure M. de Bragelonne’s happiness, and from the prese; 
moment, therefore, I oppose his marriage.” 
_ “But, sire,” exclaimed Athos, “ your majesty has promised 


- 


{29 


eee 2S 


) ; 
THE KING DISAPPROVES OF THE MATCH, 42¥ 


3 “Not so, comte, I did not promise you, for it is opposed to my own 
views.” 

“I appreciate all your majesty’s considerate and generous intentions in 
my behalf; but I take the liberty of recalling to you that I undertook to 
approach your majesty as an ambassador.” 

“An ambassador, comte, frequently asks, but does not always obtain 
what he asks.” 

“ But, sire, it will be such a blow for De Bragelonne.” 

“My hand shall deal the blow ; I will speak to the vicomte.” 

“Love, sire, is overwhelming in its might.” 

““ Love can be resisted, comte ; I myself can assure you of that.” 

“When one has the soul of a king—your own, for instance, sire.” 

“Do not make yourself uneasy on the subject. I have certain views for 
De Bragelonne. I do not say that heshall not marry Mademoiselle de la 
Valliére, but I do not wish him to Marry so young. I do not wish him to 
marry her until she has acquired a fortune ; and he, on his side, no less 


leserves my favour, stich as I wish to confer upon him. Ina word, comte, 
| wish then to wait.” 


“Yet once more, sire.” 

4“ Comte, you told me you came to request a favour.” 
/ “ Assuredly, sire.” 

“Grant me one, then, instead ; let us speak no longer upon this matter. 
t is probable that, before long, war may be declared ; I require men about 
ne who are unfettered. I should hesitate to send under fire a married 
nan, or a father of a family ; I should hesitate, also, on De Bragelonne’s 
ccount, to endow with a fortune, without some sound reason for it, a 
oung girl, a perfect stranger : such an act would sow jealousy among my 
obility.” Athos bowed, and remained silent. 

“Is that all you had io ask me ?” added Louis XIV. 

“Absolutely all, sire ; and I take my leave of your majesty. Is it, how- 
ver, necessary that I should inform Raoul ?” 

““Spare yourself the trouble and annoyance. Tell thé vicomte that at 
y 4evée to-morrow morning I will speak to him. I shall expect you this 
vening, comte, to join my card-table.” 

“Tam in travelling-costume, sire.” 

“A day will come, I hope, when you will leave me no more. Before 
ng, comte, the monarchy will be established in such a manner as to 
able me to offer a worthy hospitality to all men of your merit.” 

“* Provided, sire, a monarch reigns truly great in the hearts of his sub- 
cts, the palace he inhabits matters little, since he is worshipped in a 


nple.” With these words Athos left the cabinet, and found De Brage- - 
ane, who awaited his return. 


'* Well, monsieur ?” said the young man. 
“The king, Raoul, is well disposed towards us both ; not, perhaps, in 


s sense you suppose, but he is kind, and generously disposed for our 
|e.” 


‘You have bad news to communicate to me, monsieur,” said the young 
‘n, turning very pale. 


‘The king will himself inform you to-morrow morning that it is not bad 
lys.” 


The king has not signed, however ?” 

| The king wishes himself to settle the terms of the contract, and he 
ires to make it so grand that he requires time for it. Throw the blame 
ler on your own impatience than on the king’s good feeling towards. 


) 


ae 


THE VICOMTE DE BRAGEL CNNE. 


Raoul, in utter consternatign, both on account of his knowledge of the 
ned plunged in a dull heavy 


count’s frankness as well as of his tact, remal 
stupor. . 

“Will you not go with me to my lodgings ?” said Athos. 

“T beg your pardon, monsieur; I will follow you,” he stammered out 
following Athos down the staircase. : 

“Since I am here,” said Athos, suddenly, “ cannot I see M. d’Artagnan © 

“ Shall I show you his apartment 2” said De Bragelonne.——“ Do so.” 

“Tt is on the other staircase.” 

They altered their course, but as they reached the landing of the granc 
staircase, Raoul perceived a servant in the Comte de Guiche’s livery, wh 
ran towards him as soon as he heard his voice. 

“ What is it?” said Raoul. 

“ This note, monsieur. My master heard of your return, and wrote t 
you without delay. I have been seeking you for the last hour.” 

Raoul approached Athos as he unsealed the letter, saying, “ With you 
permission, monsieur.” ——“ Certainly.” 

“ Dear Raoul,” said the Comte de Guiche, “I have an affair in han 
which requires immediate attention. I know you havereturned ; come t 
me as soon as possible.” 

Hardly had he finished reading it, when a servant in the livery of th 
Duke of Buckingham, turning out of the gallery, recognised Raoul, an 
approached him respectfully, saying, “ From his grace, monsieur.” 

‘Well, Raoul, as I see you are already as busy as a general of an arm 
I shall leave you, and will find M. d@’Artagnan myself.” 

“ You will excuse me, I trust,” said Raoul. 

‘Yes, yes, I excuse you 5 adieu, Raoul, You will find me at my apat 
ments until to-morrow ; during the day I may set out for Blois, unless 
have orders to the contrary.” 

“J shall present my respects to you to-morrow, monsieur.” 

When Athos had left, Raoul opened Buckingham’s letter. 


“ Monsieur de Bragelonne,” said the duke, “ you are, of all the Frenc 
men I have known, the one with whom I am most pleased. I am abo 
to put your friendship to the proof. I have received a certain messa¢ 
written in very good French. As I am an Englishman, I am afraid of n 
comprehending it very clearly. The letter has a good name attached 
it, and that is all I can tell you. Will you be good enough to come a. 
see me, for I am told you have arrived.from Blois? Your devoted, 

6 VILLIERS, Duke of Buckingham.” 


422 


“T am going now to see your master,” said Raoul to De Guiche’s serve 
as he dismissed him ; ‘and I shall be with the Duke of Buckingham in 
hour,” he added, dismissing with these words the duke’s messenger. 


CHAPTER XCIV. 
SWORD-THRUSTS IN THE WATER. 


RAOUL, on betaking himself to De Guiche, found him conversing with 
Wardes and Manicamp. De Wardes, since the affair of the barricade, ! 
treated Raoul as a stranger. It might have been imagined that nothing 
all had passed between them ; only they behaved as if they were not 

quainted. As Raoul entered, De Guiche walked up to him ; and Ra 


SWORD THRUSTS IN THE WATER. 423 


; he grasped his friend’s hand, glanced rapidly at his two young com- 
anions, hoping to be able to read on their faces what was passing in their 
uinds. De Wardes was cold and impenetrable, and Manicamp seemed 
ysorbed in the contemplation of some trimming to his dress, De Guiche 
d Raoul toan adjoining cabinet, and made him sit down, saying, “ How 
ell you look !” 

* That is singular,” replied Raoul, “for I am far from being in good 
dirits.” 

“It is your case, then, Raoul, as it is my own, that your love affair does 
ot progress satisfactorily.” . 

_“So much the better, comte, as far as you are concerned ; the worst 
‘ews, that indeed which would distress me most of all, would be good 
ews.” 

“In that case do not distress yourself, for, not only am I very unhappy, 
ut, what is more, I see others about me who are happy.” 

“ Really, I do not understand you,” replied Raoul ; “explain yourself.” 
| You will soon learn. I have tried, but in vain, to overcome the feeling, 
hich you saw dawn in me, increase in me, and take such entire possession 
fmy whole being. I have summoned all your advice and all my own 
rength to my aid. I have well weighed the unfortunate affair in which 
have embarked ; I have sounded its depths ; that it is an abyss, I am 
ell aware, but it matters little, for 7 shall pursue my own course.” 
“This is madness, De Guiche, you cannot advance another step without 
sking your own ruin to-day, perhaps your life to-morrow.” 

“Whatever may happen, I have done with reflections : listen.” 
~“ And you hope to succeed ; you believe that Madame will love you ?” 

“ Raoul, I believe nothing ; I hope, because hope exists in man, and 
ever abandons him till he dies.” 

' But, admitting that you obtain the happiness you covet, even then, you 
re more certainly lost than if you had failed in obtaining it.” 

“I beseech you, Raoul, not to interrupt me any more; you could never 
onvince me, for I tell you beforehand, I do not wish to be convinced ; I 
ave gone so far that I cannot recede ; I have suffered so much, that death 
self would be a boon. I no longer love to madness, Raoul, I am in a 
erfect rage of jealousy.” 
| Raoul struck bothhis hands together with an expression resembling anger. 
‘Well ?” said he. 
| ‘Well or ill, matters little. This is what I claim from you, my friend, 
ay almost brother. During the last three days, Madame has been living 
1 a perfect intoxication of gaiety. On the first day, I dared not look 
t her; I hated her for not having been as unhappy as myself. The 
ext day I could not bear her out of my sight ; and she, Raoul—at least 
‘thought I remarked it—she looked at me, if not with pity, at least with 
entleness. But between her looks and mine, a shadow intervened : 
nother’s smile invited her smile. Beside her horse another’s always 
allops, which is not mine; in her ear another’s caressing voice, not mine, 
nceasingly vibrates. Raoul, for three days past my brain has been on 
re ; fire courses through my veins. That shadow must be driven away, 
lat smile must be quenched ; that voice must be silenced.” 
~"You wish Monsieur’s death,” exclaimed Raoul. 

“No, no, I am not jealous of the husband ; I am jealous of the lover.” 
“Of the lover ?” said Raoul. 

“ Have you not observed it, you, who were formerly so keen-sighted ?” 

© Are you jealous of the Duke of Buckingham ?” 


~~ ere 


424 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 

“To the very death !” 3 r 

“ Again jealous ?” | 

“This time the affair will be easy to arrange between us ; I have taken; 
the initiative, and have sent him a letter.” 

“It was you, then, who wrote to him 1” 

“ How do you know that ?” 

“1 know it, because he told me so. 
De Guiche the letter which he had re 
his own. De Guiche read it eagerly, 
more than that, a gallant man.” 

“ Most certainly the duke is a ga 


to him in a similar style.” ae 
“TJ will show you my letter when you call on him on my behalf. 


“ But that is almost out of the question.” ae et What is 22 ; 
“That I should call on him for that purpose.” Why so? 


<¢ The duke consults me as you do.” a 
“T suppose you will give me the preference. Listen to me, Raoul, I wish 


you to tell his grace—it is a very simple matter—that to-day, to-morrow, 
the following day, or any other day he may choose, I wish to meet him at 
Vincennes.” 

“ Reflect, De Guiche.” \ 

“T thought I had already said that I had reflected.” 

“The duke is a stranger here ; he is ona mission which renders his per- 
son inviolable. . . . Vincennes is close to the Bastille.” 

“The consequences concern me.” 

“ But the motive for this meeting. What motive do you wish me to 
assign ?” 

“Be perfectly easy on that score, he will not ask any. The duke must 
be as sick of me as I amof him. I implore you, therefore, to seek the 
duke, and if it is necessary to entreat him to accept my offer, I will do so.” 

“That is useless. The duke has already informed me that he wishes 
tospeak tome. The duke is now playing cards with the king. Let us both 
go there. I will draw him aside in the gallery ; you will remain aloof. Twe 
words will be sufficient.” 

“That is well arranged. I shall take De Wardes to keep me in coun: 
tenance.” 

“Why not Manicamp? De Wardes can rejoin us at any time ; we Cat 
leave him here.” 

“Ves, that is true.” 

“ He knows nothing ?” 

“ Positively nothing. You continue still on an unfriendly footing, then ? 

“ Has he not told you anything ?” “ Nothing.” 

“ J do not like the man, and, as I never liked him, the result is, that I an 
onno worse terms with him to-day than I was yesterday.” 

“Let us go, then.” 

The four descended the stairs. De Guiche’s carriage was waiting 2 


Look at this ;” and he handed to- 
ceived nearly at the same moment as — 
and said, “ He is a brave man, and 


lant man ; Ineed notaskif you wrote 


| 


SWORD-THRUSTS IN THE WATER. 425 


light, Raoul could not prevent himself fora moment forgetting De Guiche 
in order to seek out Louise, who, amidst her companions, like a dove com- 
pletely fascinated, gazed long and fixedly upon the royal circle, which 
glittercd with jewels and gold. Allthe members of it were standing, the king 
alone being seated. Raoul perceived Buckingham, who was standing a few 
paces from Monsieur, in a group of French and English, who were admir- 
‘ing his haughty carriage and the incomparable magnificence of his costume. 
Some few of the older courtiers remembered having seen the father, and 
their remembrance was in no way prejudicial to the son. 

Buckingham was conversing with Fouquet, who was talking with him 
aloud of Belle-Isle. “I cannot speak to him at present,” said Raoul. 

“Wait, then, and choose your opportunity, but finish everything speedily. 
I am on thorns.” 

“See, our deliverer approaches,” said Raoul, perceiving D’Artagnan, 
who, magnificently dressed in his new uniform of captain of the musque- 
teers, had just made his victorious entry in the gallery ; and he advanced 
towards D’Artagnan. 

“The Comte de la Fére has been looking for you, chevalier,” said Raoul. 

“Yes,” replied D’Artagnan, “I have just left him.” 

} “TI thought you would have passed a portion of the evening together.” 

“We have arranged to meet again.” 

As he answered Raoul, his absent looks were directed on all sides, as if 

seeking some one in the crowd or looking for something in the room. 
Suddenly his gaze became fixed, like that of an eagle on its prey. Raoul 
followed the direction of his glance, and noticed that De Guiche and 
D’Artagnan saluted each other, but he could not distinguish at whom the 
captain’s inquiring and haughty glance was directed. 

“ Chevalier,” said Raoul, “there is no one here but yourself who can 
render me a service.” 

“What is it, my dear vicomte ?” 

“It is simply to go and interrupt the Duke of Buckingham, to whom I 
wish to say two words, and, as the duke is conversing with M. Fouquet, 
you understand that it would not do for me to throw myself into the middle 
of the conversation.” 

“ Ah, ah, is M. Fouquet there ?” inquired D’Artagnan. 

“Do you not see him ?” 

_ “Yes,now I do. But do you think I have a greater right than you 
dave ?” 

“You are a far more important personage.” 

“Yes, you're right ; I am captain of the musketeers ; I have had the 
ost promised me so long, and have enjoyed its dignity for so briefa period, 
hat I am always forgetting my dignity.” 

_ “You will do me the service, will you not ?” 
_ “M. Fouquet—the deuce !” 
“ Are you not on good terms with him ?” 
“Tt is rather he who may not be on good terms with me; however, 
ince it must be done some day or another-——” 
| “Stay ; I think he is looking at you; or is it likely that it might 
»e——” 
“No, no ; don’t deceive yourself, it is indeed me for whom this honour 
3; intended.” 
_“ The opportunity is a good one, then.” 
“Do you think so ?” “ Pray go,” 
“Well, I will.” 


| ; | 
426 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


De Guiche had not removed his eyes from Raoul, who made a sign to 
him that all was arranged. D’Artagnan walked straight up to the group, 
and civilly saluted M. Fouquet as well as the others. 

‘¢Good evening, M. d’Artagnan ; we were speaking of Belle-Isle,” said 
Fouquet, with that usage of society, and that perfect knowledge of the 
language of looks, which require half a lifetime thoroughly to acquire, and 
which some persons, notwithstanding all their study, never attain. % 

“ OF Belle-Isle-en-Mer! Ah, ah!” said D’Artagnan. “It belongs to 
you, I believe, M. Fouquet ry 

“M. Fouquet has just told me that he had presented it to the king,” said 
Buckingham. 

“Do you know Belle-Isle, chevalier 2” inquired Fouquet. 

“T have only been there once,” replied D’Artagnan, with readiness and 
good humour. 

“Did you remain there long >» Scarcely a day.” 

“ Did you see much of it while you were there ?” 

“ AJ] that could be seen in a day.” 

“ A great deal can be seen with observation as keen as yours,” said 
Fouquet ; at which D’Artagnan bowed. ri 
During this Raoul made a sign to Buckingham. “M. Fouquet,” sal 
Buckingham, “I leave the captain with you; he is more learned than I an 
in bastions, and scarps, and counter-scarps, and I will join one of my 
friends, who has just beckoned to me.” Saying this, Buckingham dis: 
engaged himself from the group, and advanced towards Raoul, stopping 
for a moment at the table where the queen-mother, the young queen, anc 
the king were playing together. “ Now, Raoul,” said De Guiche, “ there 

he is ; be firm and quick.” 

Buckingham, having made some complimentary remark to Madame 
continued his way towards Raoul, who advanced to meet him, while D 
Guiche remained in his place, though he followed him with hiseyes. Th 
manceuvre was so arranged that the young men met in an open spac 
which was left vacant between the group of players and the gallery, wher 
they walked, stopping now and then for the purpose of saying a few word 
to some of the graver courtiers who were walking there. At the momer 
when the two lines were about to unite, they were broken by a third. 2 
was Monsicur, who advanced towards the Duke of Buckingham. Monsiet 
had his most engaging smile on his red and perfumed lips. 

“ My dear duke,” said he, with the most affectionate politeness, “is 
really true what I have just been told ?” 

Buckingham turned round; he had not noticed Monsieur approach, bi 
had merely heard his voice. He started, in spite of his command ov 
himself, anda slight pallor overspread his face. “ Monseigneur,” he aske 
“ what has been told you that surprises you so much ?” 

“ That which throws me into despair, and will, in truth, be a real cau 
of mourning for the whole court.” 

“Your highness is very kind, for I perceive that you allude to my d 
parture.” 

“ Precisely.” 

Guiche had overheard the conversation from where he was standi1 
and et in his turn, “ His departure,” he murmured. “ What does 
say! 

Philip continued with the same gracious air, “I can easily concel 
monsieur, why the king of Great Britain recalls you; we all know t 
King Charles IJ., who appreciates true gentlemen, cannot dispense v 


SWORD-THRUSTS IN THE WATER. 427 


you. But it cannot be supposed we can let you go without great regret ; 
and I beg you to receive the expression of my own.” 

“ Believe me, monseigneur,” said the duke, “that if I quit the court of 
France——” 

“‘ It is because you are recalled ; but, if you should suppose that the ex- 
pression of my own wish on the subject might possibly have some influence 
with the king, I will gladly volunteer to entreat his majesty Charles II. to 
leave you with us a little while longer.” 

“ T am overwhelmed, monseigneur, by so much kindness,” replied Buck- 
ingham; “but I have received positive commands. My residence in 
France was limited; I have prolonged it at the risk of displeasing my 
gracious sovereign. It is only this very day that I recollected I ought to 
have set off four days ago.” 

“Indeed,” said Monsieur. 

“Yes ; but,” added Buckingham, raising his voice in such a manner that 
the princess could hear him,—“ but I resemble that dweller in the East, 
who turned mad, and remained so for several days, owing to a delightful 
dream that he had had, and who one day awoke, if not completely cured, 
in some respects rational at least. The court of France has its intoxicating 
properties, which are not unlike this dream, my lord ; but at last I wake 
and leave it. I shall be unable, therefore, to prolong my residence as 
your highness has so kindly invited me.” 

“When do you leave?” inquired Philip, with an expression full of 
interest. 

“To-morrow, monseigneur. My carriages have been ready for three 
days past.” 

The Duc d’Orléans made a movement of the head, which seemed to 
signify, ““Since you are determined, duke, there is nothing to be said.” 
Buckingham returned the gesture, concealing under a smile a contraction 
of his heart, and then Monsieur moved away in the same direction by 
which he had approached. At the same moment, however, De Guiche 
advanced from the opposite direction. Raoul feared that the impatient 
young man might possibly make the proposition himself, and hurried for- 
ward before him. 

* No, no, Raoul, all is useless now,” said Guiche, holding both his hands 
towards the duke, and leading him himself behind a column. “ Forgive 
me, duke, for what I wrote to you, I was mad; give me back my 
letter.” 

“It is true,” said the Duke, “ you cannot owe me a grudge any longer 
now.” 

“ Forgive me, Duke; my friendship, my lasting friendship is yours.” 

“ There is certainly no reason why you should bear me any ill-will from 
the moment I leave her never to see her again.” 

Raoul heard these words, and comprehending that his presence was now 
useless between the two young men, who had now only friendly words to 
exchange, withdrew a few paces; a movement which brought him 
closer to De Wardes, who was conversing with the Chevalier de Lor- 
raine respecting the departure of Buckingham. “A wise retreat,” said 
De Wardes. 

“Why so?” 

“ Because the dear Duke saves a sword-thrust by it.” At which reply 
both began to laugh. 

Raoul, indignant, turned round frowningly, flushed with anger, and his 
lip curling with disdain, The Chevalier de Lorraine turned away upon 


7 


428 THE VICOMTE DE BRACELONNE,. 


his heel, but De Wardes remained firm and waited. ‘ You will not break 
yourself of the habit,” said Raoul to De Wardes, “of insulting the ab- 
sent ; yesterday it was M. d’Artagnan, to-day it is the Duke of Bucking: 
ham.” 

“You know very well, monsieur,” returned De Wardes, “that I some- 
times insult those who are present.” 

De Wardes touched Raoul, their shoulders met, their faces were bent 
towards each other, as if mutually to inflame each other by the fire of their 
breath and of their anger. It could be seen that the one was at the height 
of his anger, the other at the end of his patience. Suddenly a voice was 
heard behind them full of grace and courtesy, saying, “I believe I heard 
my name pronounced.” 

_ They turned round and saw D’Artagnan, who, with a smiling eye, and 

a cheerful face, had just placed his hand on De Wardes’ shoulder. Raoul 

stepped back to make room for the musketeer. De Wardes trembled 

from head to foot, turned pale, but did not move. J’Artagnan, still with 

the same smile, took the place which Raoul abandoned to him. ‘“ Thank 

you, my dear Raoul,” hesaid. ‘‘M. de Wardes, I wish to talk with you. 

Do not leave us, Raoul; every one can hear what I have to say to M. de/ 
Wardes.” His smile immediately faded away, and his glance became) 
cold and sharp as a sword. 

“‘T am at your orders, monsieur, ” said De Wardes. 

“For avery long time,” resumed D’Artagnan, “I have sought an oppor- 
tunity of conversing with you; to-day is the ‘first time I have found it. 
The place is badly chosen, I admit ; but you will perhaps have the good- 
ness to accompany me to my apar ‘tments, which are on the staircase at 
the end of this gallery.” 

“‘T follow you, monsieur,” said De Wardes. 

‘Are you alone here?” said D’Artagnan. 

“No; I have M. Manicamp, and M. de Guiche, two of my friends.” 

‘““That’s well,” said D’Artagnan ; “ but two persons are not sufficient ; 
you will be able to find a few. others, triste 

“ Certainly,” said the young man, "who did not know ae object D’Ar- 
tagnan had in view. “As many as you please.” 

“ Are they friends ?” “Yes, monsieur.” 

“ Real friends ?” “No doubt of it.” 

“Very well, get a good supply, then. Do you come too, Raoul ; bring 
M. de Guiche and the Duke of Buckingham.” 

‘““ What a disturbance,” replied De Wardes, attempting to smile. The 
captain slightly signed to him with his hand, as though to recommend ae 
to be patient, and then led the way to his apartments. | 


CHAPTER XCV; 
SWORD-THRUSTS IN THE WATER (CONCLUDED). 


D’ARTAGNAN’S apartment was not unoccupied ; for the Comte de la Fére, 
seated in the recess of a window, awaited him. “ Well,” said he to D’Ar- 
tagnan, as he saw him enter. 

“Well,” said the latter, “IM. de Wardes has done me the honour to pay 
mea visit, in company with some of his own friends, as well as of ours.” 
In fact, behind the musketeer appeared De Wardes and Manicamp, fol- 
lowed by De Guiche and Buckingham, who looked surprised, not knowing 
what was expected of them. Raoul was accompanied by two or RIG 


SWORD:THRUSTS IN THE WATER. 429 


ntlemen ; and, as he entered, glanced round the room, and perceiving 
» comte, he went and placed himself by his side. D’Artagnan received 
; visitors with all the courtesy he was capable of; he preserved his 
moved and unconcerned look. All the persons present were men of 
stinction, occupying posts of honour and credit at the court. After he 
d apologized to each of them for any inconvenience he might have put 
2m to, he turned towards De Wardes, who, in spite of his great self- 
mmand, could not prevent his face betraying some surprise mingled 
th not alittle uneasiness. “ Now, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, “since 
» are no longer within the precincts of the king’s palace, and since we 
n speak out without failing in respect to propriety, I will inform you 
1y I have taken the liberty to request you to visit me here, and why I 
ye invited these gentlemen to be present at the same time. My friend, 
e Comte de la Fére, has acquainted me with the injurious reports you 
e spreading about myself. You have stated that you regard me as your 
ortal enemy, because I was, so you affirm, that of your father.” 

“ Perfectly true, monsieur, I have said so,” replied De Wardes, whose 
lid face became slightly tinged with colour. 

“You accuse me, therefore, of a crime, or a fault, or of some mean and 
wwardly act. Have the goodness to state your charge against me in pre- 
se terms.” 


*¢ Aloud ?” 

“ Certainly, aloud.” 

“Tn that case, I will speak.” 

“Speak, monsieur,” said D’Artagnan, bowing ; “we are all listening 
) you.” 
| “Well, monsieur, it is not a question of a personal injury towards 
vyself, but of one towards my father.” 

“ That you have already stated.” 

“Yes; but there are certain subjects which are only approached with 
reat hesitation.” 

“Tf that hesitation, in your case, really does exist, I entreat you to over- 
ome it.” 

“ Even if it refer to a disgraceful action ?” 


“Yes; in every and any case.” 
Those who were present at this scene had, at first, looked at each other 


vith a good deal of uneasiness. They were reassured, however, when they 
aw that D’Artagnan manifested no emotion whatever. De Wardes still 
naintained the same unbroken silence. “Speak, monsieur,” said the 
nusketeer ; “you see you are keeping us waiting.” 

“Listen, then :—My father loved a woman of noble birth, and this 


430 TH VICOMTE DE BRAGELUNNE.. 


woman loved my father.” D’Artagnan and Athos exchanged looks. Dé 
Wardes continued : “ M. d’Artagnan found some letters which indicated 
a rendezvous, substituted himself, under a disguise, for the person whe 
was expected, and took advantage of the darkness.” 

“ That is perfectly true,” said D’Artagnan. 

A slight murmur was heard from those present. “Ves, I was guilty of 
that dishonourable action. You should have added, monsieur, since you 
are so impartial, that, at the period when the circumstance which you have 
just related, happened, I was not one-and-twenty years of age.” 

“The action is not the less shameful on that account,” said De Wardes ; 
“and it is quite sufficient for a gentleman to have attained the age of 
reason, to avoid committing any act of indelicacy.” 

‘A renewed murmur was heard, but this time of astonishment, and almost 
of doubt. 

“It was a most shameful deception, I admit,” said D’Artagnan, “and I 
have not waited for M. de Wardes’ reproaches to reproach myself for it, 
and very bitterly too. Age has, however, made me more reasonable, and, 
above all, more upright: and this injury has been atoned for by a lon 
and lasting regret. But I appeal to you, gentlemen ; this affair took plac 
in 1626, at a period, happily for yourselves, known to you by tradition onl 
at a period when love was not over scrupulous, when consciences did no 
distil, as in the present day, poison and bitterness. We were young soldiers, 
always fighting, or being attacked, our swords always in our hands, or at 
least ready to be drawn from their sheaths. Death then always stared us 
in the face, war hardened us, and the cardinal pressed us sorely. I have 
repented of it, and more than that—I still repent it, M. de Wardes.” 

“T can well understand that, monsieur, for the action itself needed re- 
pentance ; but you were not the less the cause of that lady’s disgrace. She 
of whom you have been speaking, covered with shame, borne down by the 
affront she had had wrought upon her, fled, quitted France, and no one eve! 
knew what became of her.” 

“Stay,” said the Comte de la Fere, stretching his hand towards De 
Wardes, with a peculiar smile upon his face, “you are mistaken ; she was 
seen ; and there are persons even now present, who, having often hearc 
her spoken of, will easily recognise her by the description I am about tc 
give. She was about five-and-twenty years of age, slender in form, of a 
pale complexion, and fair-haired ; she was matried in England.” | 

“ Married ?” exclaimed De Wardes. 

“So, you were not aware she was married? You see we are far bette: 
informed than yourself. Do you happen to know she was usually stylec 
‘my lady, without the addition of any name to that description ?” 

“ Ves, I know that.” 

“ Good heavens !” murmured Buckingham. 

“Very well, monsieur. That woman, who came from England, returne 
to England after having thrice attempted M. d’Artagnan’s life. That w 
but just, you will say, since M. d’Artagnan had insulted her. But th 
which was not just was, that, when in England, this woman, by her sedud 
tions, completely enslaved a young man in the service of Lord Winter, b 
name Felton. You change colour, my lord,” said Athos, turning to th) 
Duke of Buckingham, “and your eyes kindle with anger and sorrow. Lé¢ 
your grace finish the recital, then, and tell M. de Wardes who this woma: 
was who placed the knife in the hand of your father’s murderer.” 

A cry escaped from the lips of all present. The young duke passed hh 
handkerchief across his forehead, which was covered with perspiration. 


SWORD-THRUSTS IN THE WATER, 431 


dead silence ensued among the spectators. “ You see, M. de Wardes,” 
said D’Artagnan, whom this recital had impressed more and more, as his 
Own recollection revived as Athos spoke, “you see, that my crime did not 
cause the destruction of any one’s soul, and that the soul in question may 
fairly be considered to have been altogether lost before my regret. It is, 

Owever, an act of conscience on my part. Now this matter is settled, 
therefore, it remains fo1: me to ask, with the greatest humility, your forgive- 
ness for this shameless action, as most certainly I should have asked it ot 
your father, if he were still alive, and if I had met him after my return to 
France, subsequent to the death of King Charles I,” 

“That is too much, M. d’Artagnan,” exclaimed Many voices, with 
animation. s 

“No, gentlemen,” said) the captain. “And now, M. de Wardes, I hope 
all is finished between us, and that you will have no further occasion to 
speak ill of me again. JOo you consider it completely settled ?” 

De Wardes bowed, amd muttered to himself inarticulately. 
_ “T trust also,” said D’Artagnan, approaching the young man closely, 
“that you will ne longer speak ill of any One, as it seems you have the 
‘nfortunate hibit of doing ; for a man so puritanically conscientious as 
lou are, who can reproach an old soldier for a youthful freak five-and- 


advocate such excessive purity of conscience, will undertake on your side 
© do nothing contrary either to conscience or a principle of honour. 
And now, listen attentively to what I am going to say, M. de Wardes, in 
onclusion. Take care that no tale, with which your name may be associ- 
ited, reaches my ear.” 

Monsieur,” said De Wardes, “ it is useless threatening to no purpose.” 

“T have not yet finished, M. de Wardes ; and you must listen to me 
till further.” The circle of listeners, tull of eager curiosity, drew closer 
ogether. “You spoke just now of the honour of a woman and of the 
‘onour of your father. We were glad to hear you speak in that manner ‘ 
or it is pleasing to think that such a sentiment of delicacy and rectitude, 
nd which did not exist, it seems, in our minds, lives in our children 
nd it is delightful too, to see a young man, at an age when men from 
abit become the destroyers of the honour of women, respect and de- 


ps and clenched his hands, evidently much dis- 

irbed to learn how this discourse, the commencement of which was 
nced in so threatening a manner, would terminate. 

id j then, that you allowed yourself to say to M. 

nne that he did not know who his mother was ?” 

darting forward, he exclaimed »—“ Chevalier, this 

-‘rsonal affair of my own!” At which exclamation a smile, full of 


cret. I again put my question to M. de Wardes. What was the sub- 
‘tof conversation when you offended this young man, in offending his 


432 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. f 


allowed, when it is ready to be supported by every means which a man - 
of courage has at his disposal.” : 

“ Tell me what the means are by which a man of courage can sustain a 
slanderous expression.” 

“The sword.” is 

“You fail, not only in logic, in your argument, but in religion and hon-_, 
our. You expose the lives of many others, without referring to your own, 
which seems to be full of hazard. Besides, fashions pass away, monsieur, 
and the fashion of duelling has passed away, without referring 1n any Way — 
to the edicts. of his majesty which forbid it. Therefore, in order to be 
consistent with your own chivalrous notions, you will at once apologise to | 
M. de Bragelonne ; you will tell him how much you regret having spoken | 
so lightly, and that the nobility and purity of his, race are inscribed, not | 
in his heart alone, but, still more, in every action of his life. You will do | 
and say this, M. de Wardes, as I, an old officer, did and said just now to 
your boy’s moustache.” a. Fie 

“ And if I refuse?” inquired De Wardes. 3 

“In that case the result will be ” 5 : 7 

“That which you think you will prevent,” said De Wardes, laughing \ 


“the result will be that your concilatory address will end in a violation 0 
the king’s prohibition.” 

“ Not so,” said the captain, “ you are quite mistaken.” 

“What will be the result, then 2” 

“The result will be, that I shall go to the king, with whom I am on 
tolerably good terms, to whom I have been happy enough to render cer- 
tain services, dating from a period when you were not born, and who, at 
my request, has just sent me _ an order in blank for M. Baisemeaux de 
Montlezun, governor of the Bastille ; and I shall say to the king,— Sire, | 
4 man has cowardly insulted M. de Bragelonne, in insulting his mother ; 
I have written this man’s name upon the lettre de cachet which your ma- 
jesty has been kind enough to give me, so that M. de Wardes is in the 
Bastille for three years.’” And D’Artagnan, drawing the order signed by 
the king from his pocket, held it towards De Wardes. Remarking that 
the young man was not quite convinced, and received the warning as 
an idle threat, he shrugged his shoulders, and walked leisurely towards 
the table, upon which lay a writing-case and a pen, the length of which 
would have terrified the topographical Porthos. De Wardes then saw 
that nothing could well be more seriously intended than the threat in 
question, for the Bastille, even at that period, was already held in dread. 
He advanced a step towards Raoul, and, in an almost unintelligible Vtylec 
said,—“I offer my apologies in the terms which M. d’Artagnan jus | 
dictated, and which I am forced to make to you.” : 

“ One moment, monsieur,” said the musketeer, with the greatest 
quillity, “ you mistake the terms of the apology. I did not say, Sam ia 
7 am forced to make 3 I said, ‘and which my conscience induces M \, 
make. This latter expression, believ- me, is better than the former 5 a-- 
it will be far preferable, since it will be the most truthful expression of you 
own sentiments.” | 

“1 subscribe to it,” said De Wardes ; “but admit, gentlemen, that 
thrust of a sword through the body, as was the custom formerly, was fe 
better than tyranny like this.” | 

“ No, monsieur,” replied Buckingham ; “ for the sword-thrust, when 1 
ceived, was no indication that a particular person was right or wrong ;_ 
only showed that he was more or less skilful in the use of the weapon.” 

» 


SWORD-THRUSTS IN THE WATER. 433 


“ Monsieur !” exclaimed De Wardes. 

“There now,” interrupted D’Artagnan, “you are going to say something 
sry rude, and I am rendering youa service in stopping you in time.” 

“Ts that all, monsieur ?” inquired De Wardes. 

“Absolutely everything,” replied D’Artagnan ; “and these gentlemen, 
3 well as myself, are quite satisfied with you.” 

“Believe me, monsieur, that your reconciliations are not successful.” 
“In what way?” | 

“ Because, as we afe now about to separate, I would wager that M. de 
ragelonne and myself are greater enemies than ever.” 

“You are deceived, monsieur, as far as I am concerned,” returned Raoul ; 
for I do not retain the slightest animosity in my heart against you.” 
This last blow overwhelmed De Wardes ; he cast his eyes around him 
<€ a man utterly bewildered. D’Artagnan saluted most courteously the 
sntlemen who had been present at the explanation, and every one, on 
aving the room, shook ha’nds with him ; but not one hand was held out 
wards De Wardes. “Avh !” exclaimed the young man, abandoning him- 
‘If to the rage whign consumed him, “can I not find some one on whom 
' wreak my vg%rfeance ?” 
Ti a7, monsieur, for I am here !” whispered a voice full of menace 
is ear. 
e Wardes turned round, and saw the Duke of Buckingham, who, having 
bably remained behind with that intention, had just approached him. 
ou, monsieur ?” exclaimed De Wardes. 
‘Yes, I! Iam no subject of the King of France ; I am not going to 
fmain on the territory, since I am about setting off for England. I have 
ccumulated in my heart such a mass of despair and rage, that I too, like 
ourself, need to revenge myself upon some one. J approve M.d’Artagnan’s 
rinciples extremely, but I am not bound to apply them to you. I am an 
mglishman, and, in my turn, { propose to you what you proposed to 
thers to no purpose. Since you, therefore, are so terribly incensed, take 
1e as aremedy. In thirty-four hours’ time I shall be at Calais. Come 
ith me ; the journey will appear shorter if together than if alone. We 
ill fight, when we get there, upon the sands which are covered by the 
sing tide, and which form part of the French territory during six hours of 
ae day, but belong to the territory of Heaven during the other six.” 
“T accept willingly,” said De Wardes. 

*“‘T assure you,” said the duke, “ that, if you kill me, you will be render- 
g me an infinite service.” 

“!, will do my utmost to be agreeable to you, duke,” said De Wardes. 
is agreed, then, that I carry you off with me ?” 
all be at your commands. I required some real danger and some 
risk to run, to tranquillise me.” 
i that case, I think you have met with what you are looking for. Fare- 
.de Wardes ; to-morrow morning my valet will tell you the exact hour 
eeparture. Weill travel together like two excellent friends. I gene- 
‘lly travel as fast as I can. Adieu!” Buckingham saluted De Wardes, 
ad returned towards the king’s apartments. De Wardes, irritated beyond 
‘easure, left the Palais Royal, and hurried through the streets homeward 
‘the house where he lodged. 


434 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


CHAPTER: X€Vi; 
BAISEMEAUX DE MONTLEZUN. = 
AFTER the rather severe lesson administered to De Wardes, Athos an 


D’Artagnan together descended the staircase which led to the courtyar 
of the Palais Royal. ‘You perceive,” said Athos to D’Artagnan, “ thz 
Raoul cannot, sooner or later, avoid a duel with De Wardes ; for D 
Wardes is as brave as he is vicious and wicked.” 

‘‘T know these fellows well,” replied D’Artagrian ; “I have had an affa 
with the father. I assure you that, although’ at that time I had goc 
muscles and a sort of brute courage—lI assure you the father did me son 
mischief. But you should have seen how I ‘fought it out with him; a 
Athos, such encounters never take place in ‘these times! I had a har. 
_ which could never remain at rest—a hand like quicksilver ; you knew i 
quality, for you have seen me at work. My sword was no longer a pie 
of steel; it was a serpent which assumed every form and every lengt 
seeking where it might thrust its head—in other words, w.sere it might / 
its bite. I advanced half a dozen paces, then three, and then, bodf 
body, I pressed my antagonist closely; then I darted back again’ 
paces. No human power could resist that ferocious ardour. Well, 
Wardes, the father, with the bravery of his race, with his dogged cour: © 
occupied a good deal of my time; and my fingers at the end of the; | 
gagement were, I well remember, tired enough.” \ 

“Tt is, then, as I said,” resumed Athos : “the son will always be lookt 
out for Raoul, and will end by meeting him; and Raoul can easily 
found when he is sought for.” | 

* Agreed. But Raoul calculates well: he bears no grudge against I 
Wardes—he has said so ; he will wait until he is provoked, and in th 
case his position is a good one. The king will not be able to get out 
temper about the matter ; besides, we shall know how to pacify his majest 
But why so full of these fears and anxieties? You don’t easily get alarmec 

“T will tell you what makes me anxious. Raoul is to see the king t 
morrow, when his majesty will inform him of his wishes respecting a certa 
marriage. Raoul, loving as he does, will get out of temper ; and once 
an angry mood, if he were to meet De Wardes, the shell will explode.” 

“We will prevent the explosion.” 

“ Not I,” said Athos, “for I must return to Blois. All this gilded é! 
gance of the court, all these intrigues, diseust me; I am no longer ay 
man who can make his terms with the meannesses of the present / ~ 
have read in the great Book of God many things too beautiful { 
comprehensive to take any interest in the little trifling phrases whic 
men whisper among themselves when they wish to deceive others. nec 
word, I am sick of Paris wherever and whenever you are not withwa 
and as I cannot have you always, I wish to return to Blois.” ~* 

“How wrong you are, Athos—how you gainsay your origin and t 
destiny of your noble nature! Men of your stamp are created to contint 
to the very last moment, in full possession of their great faculties. Lo 
at my sword, a Spanish blade, the one I wore at Rochelle ; it served 1 
for thirty years without fail. One day in the winter it fell upon the mart 
floor of the Louvre and was broken. I had a hunting-knife made of 
which will last a hundred years yet. You, Athos, with your loyalty, yc 
frankness, your cool courage, and your sound information, are the ve 


BAISEMEAUX DE MONTLEZUN. 435 


gs need to warn and direct them. Remain here ; Monsieur Fou- 


1 not last so long as my Spanish blade.” 
t possible,” said Athos, smilingly, “that my friend, D’Artagnan, 
er having raised me to the skies, making me an object of worship, 


2 down from the top of Olympus, and hurls me to the ground ? I 
tore exalted ambition, D’Artagnan. To be a minister—to be a 
ever! Am I notstill greater? Jam nothing. I remember having 
‘ou occasionally call me ‘the great Athos ; I defy you, therefore, if 


minister, to continue to bestow that title upon me. No,no ; I do not 


yself in this manner.” 
will not speak of it any more, 
therly feeling which unites us.” 


s almost cruel, what you say.” 
tagnan pressed Athos’ hand warmly. “No, no ; renounce every- 


vithout fear. Raoul can get on without you ; I am at Paris.” 
that case I shall return to Blois. We will take leave of each other to 


to-morrow at 4o~break I shall be on my horse again.” 
= q7? your hotel alone ; why did you not bring Grimaud 


?? Lynaly a 


then ;—renounce everything, even 


au P< .. 
smaud takes his rest now ; he goes to bed early, for my poor old 


t gets easily fatigued. He came from Blois with me, and I com- 
him to remain within doors ; for if, in retracing the forty leagues 
separate us from Blois, he needed to draw breath even, he would 


thout a murmur. But I don’t want to lose Grimaud.” 

*u shall have one of my musketeers to carry a torch for you. old! 
one there,” called out D’Artagnan, leaning over the gilded balus- 
—the heads of seven or eight musketeers appeared,—“ I wish some 
man who is so disposed, to escort the Comte de la Fére,” cried 


lagnan. 
hank you for your readiness, gentlemen,” said Athos ; 


occasion to trouble you in this manner.” 
‘would willingly escort the Comte de la Fére,” said some one, “if Thad 


) speak to Monsieur @’Artagnan.” 
Vho is that 2” said D’Artagnan, looking into the darkness. 


, Monsieur d’Artagnan.” 
[eaven forgive me, if tha 


t is, monsieur.” 

Vhat are you doing in the courtyard, my dear Baisemeaux ?” 
am waiting your orders, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan.” 

retch that I am,” thought D’Artagnan ; “true, you have been told, I 


ose, that some one was to be arrested, and have come yourself, instead 


nding an officer ?” 
came because I had occasion to speak to you.” 


You did not send to me?”’ - ye 
waited until you were disengaged,” said Monsieur Baisemeaux, timidly. 
{ leave you, D’Artagnan,” said Athos. 

Not before I have presented Monsieur Baisemeaux de Montlezun, the 
‘rnor of the Bastille.” 

aisemeaux and Athos saluted each other. 

Surely you must know each other,” added D’Artagnan. 

I have an indistinct recollection of Monsieur Baisemeaux,” said Athos. 
You remember my dear Baisemeaux, that king’s guardsman with 
m we used formerly to have such delightful meetings in the cardinal’s 


7 4 
238—2 


“] regret t0 


t is Monsieur Baisemeaux’s voice.” 


436 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 
“ Perfectly,” said Athos, taking leave of him with affability. 
« Monsieur le Comte de la Fére, whose om de guerre was Athos,” whi 
pered D’Artagnan to Baisemeaux. 
“Yes, yes ; a brave man, one of the celebrated four.” 


“Tf you please.” 

“In the first place, as for the orders—there are none. The king does 
intend to arrest the person in question.” 

“So much the worse,” said Baisemeaux with a sigh. — 

“What do you mean by so much the worse 2” exclaimed D’Artagn 
laughing. ; 

‘°No doubt of it,” returned the governor, “‘my prisoners are my Inco 

“J beg your pardon, I did not see it in that light.” : 

(79 

And so there are no orders,” repeated Baisemeaux, with a sigh. bia) 
an admirable situation yours is, captain,” he continued, after a pa 
“ captain-lieutenant of the musketeers.” 

“Oh, it is good enough ; but I don’t see why sou should envy me ; y 
governor of the Bastille, the first castle in France#ste= 

“ T am well aware of that,” said Baisemeaux, in adg.Wanetd tone of vg, 

“You say that like a man confessing his sins. I would willingly exch 
my profits for yours.” : 

“Don’t speak of profits to me, if you wish to save me the bitterest angu 
of mind.” 

“ Why do you look first on one side and then on the other, as. if \ 
were afraid of being arrested yourself, you whose business it is t¢ § 
others ?” dt. 

“T was looking to see whether any one could see or listen ta'y 
would be safer to confer more in private, if you would grant me < 


“ Precisely so. But, my dear Baisemeaux, shall we talk now?” | 


<——— 


f 
i 


i 


—— 


“ Baisemeaux, you seem to forget we are acquaintances of five-and-tif] 
years’ standing. Don’t assume such sanctified airs ; make yourself. 
comfortable ; I don’t eat governors of the Bastille raw.” tt 

“ Heaven be praised !” | 

“ Come into the courtyard with me; it’s a beautiful moonlight night 
will walk up and down, arm in arm, under the trees, while you tell me 
pitiful tale.” He drew the doleful governor into the courtyard, took hi 
the arm as he had said, and, in his rough, good-humoured way, cried: = 
with it, rattle away, Baisemeaux ; what have you got to say?” 

“It’s a long story.” 

“You prefer your own lamentations, then ; my opinion is, it will be lo 
than ever. Ill wager you are making fifty thousand francs out of 
pigeons in the Bastille.” | 

“Would to heaven that were the case, M. d’Artagnan.” | 

“ You surprise me, Baisemeaux ; just look at yourself, vous faztes Phot 
contrit. 1 should like to show you your face in a glass, and you wi 
see how plump and florid-looking you are, as fat and round as a che 
with eyes like lighted coals ; and if it were not for that ugly wrinkle 
try to cultivate on your forehead, you would hardly look fifty years old, 
you are sixty, if I am not mistaken.” “ All quite true.” 

“Of course I knew it was true, as true as the fifty thousand francs p 
you make ; at which remark Baisemeaux stamped on the ground. 

“Well, well,” said D’Artagnan, “I will run up your account for you ‘fl 
were captain of M. Mazarin’s guards ; and 12,000 francs a year woul! 
twelve years amount to 140,000 francs.” 


| 
\ 


BAISEMEAUX DE MONTLEZUIW. 437 


‘welve thousand francs! Are you mad?” cried Baisemeaux ; “the 
niser gave me no more than 6,000, and the expenses of the post 
nted to 6,500. M. Colbert, who deducted the other 6,000 francs, con- 
nded to allow me to take fifty pistoles as a gratification ; so that, if it 
not for my little estate at Montlezun, which brings me in 12,000 
s a year, I could not have met my engagements.” 
Vell, then, how about the 50,000 francs from the Bastille? There, I 
you are boarded and lodged, and get your 6,000 francs salary be- 
| om Admitted !” 
Vhether the year be good or bad, there are fifty prisoners, who, on an 
ge, bring you in a thousand francs a year each.” 
don’t deny it.” 
Vell, there is at once an income of 50,000 fraacs ; you have held the 
three years, and must have received in that time 150,000 francs.” 
“ou forget one circumstance, dear M. d’Artagnan.” 
Vhat is that ?” 
‘hat while you received your appointment as captain from the king 
elf, I received Mine as governor from Messrs. Tremblay and Louviére.” 
duite right, and Tremblay was not a man to let you have the post for 
ng. 
Jor was Louviére either ; the result was that I gave 75,000 francs to 
iblay as his share.” 
Tery agreeable that ! and to Louviére ?”>———“ The same.” 
Money down ?” 
Yo; that would have been impossible. The king did not wish, or 
 M. Mazarin did not wish, to have the appearance of removing 
‘two gentlemen, who had sprung from the barricades ; he permitted 


, therefore, to make certain extravagant conditions for their retire- 
” 


Vhat were those conditions ?” 

[Tremble . . . . three years’ income for the goodwill.” 

“he deuce ! so that the 150,000 francs have passed into their hands.” 
-recisely so.” 

ind beyond that °” 

\ sum of 150,000 francs, or 15,000 pistoles, whichever you please, in 
> payments.” 

*xorbitant enough.” —“ Yes, but that is not all.” 

What besides ?” 

n default of the fulfilment by me of any one of those conditions, those 
lemen enter upon their functions again. The king has been induced 
zn that.” 

t is enormous, incredible !’——“ Such is the fact, however.” 

do indeed pity you, Baisemeaux. But why, in the name of fortune, 
MI. Mazarin grant you this pretended favour ; it would have been far 
sr to have refused you altogether.” 

Certainly, but he was strongly persuaded to do so by my protector.” 
Who is he ?” 

One of your own friends, indeed ; M. d’Herblay.” 

M. d’Herblay! Aramis !” 

[ust so; he has been very kind towards me.” 

Kind! to make you enter into such a bargain !” 

Listen! I wished to leave the cardinal’s service. M d’Herblay spoke 
ny behalf to Louviére and Tremblay—they objected ; I wished to 
the appointment very much, for I knew what it could be made to 


438 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


Se 


produce ; in my distress I confided in M. d@’Herblay, and he offered to 
come my surety for the different payments.” 

“YVou'astound me! Aramis become your surety ?” 

“Like a man of honour; he procured the signature ; Tremblay < 
Louvidére resigned their appointments ; I have paid every year 25, 
francs to these two gentlemen ; on the 31st of May, every year, M. dv’H 
blay himself comes to the Bastille, and brings me 5,000 pistoles, 
distribute between my crocodiles.” 

“You owe Aramis 150,000 francs, then ?” | 

“That is the very thing which is the cause of my despair, for I | 
owe him 100,000.” “| don’t quite understand you.” 

“ He has been only two years. To day, however, is the 31st of May, : 
he has not been yet, and to-morrow, at mid-day, the payment falls di 
if, therefore, I don’t pay to-morrow, those gentlemen can, by the term: 
the contract, break off the bargain ; I shall be stripped of everything 
shall have worked for three years, and given 250,000 francs for noth 
absolutely for nothing at all, dear M. d’Artagnan.” 

“This is very strange,” murmured D’Artagnan. 

“You can now imagine that I may well have wrinkles on my foreh 
can you not?” “Ves, indeed !” Re aa 

“ And you can imagine, too, that notwithstanding I may be as round : 
cheese, with a complexion like an apple, and my eyes like coals on fir 
may almost be afraid that I shall not have a cheese or an apple left} 
to eat, and that I shall only have my eyes left me to weep with.” 

“It is really a very grievous affair.” 

“T have come to you, M. d’Artagnan, for you are the only one who 
get me out of my trouble.” “In what way 2” 

“You are acquainted with the Abbé d’Herblay, and you know that 
is somewhat mysterious.” ae Ga ad 

“Well, you can, perhaps, give me the address of his presbytery, fi 
have been to Noisy-le-Sec, and he is no longer there.” 

“I should think not, indeed. He is Bishop of Vannes.” 

‘What! Vannes in Bretagne ?’——“ Yes.” 
The little man began to tear his hair, saying, “ How can I get to Vai 
from here by midday to-morrow? I am a lost man.” : 
“Your despair quite distresses me.” 
“Vannes, Vannes,” cried Baisemeaux. ! 
‘But, listen ; a bishop is not always a resident. M. d’Herblay | 
not possibly be so far away as you fear.” 
“Pray tell me his address.” ——“ I really don’t know it.” | 
“In that case, I am utterly lost. I will go and throw myself at 


king’s feet.” 
“But, Baisemeaux, I can hardly believe what you tell me; besides, : 
the Bastille is capable of producing 50,000 francs a year, why have 
not tried to screw 100,000 out of it ?” 
“Because I am an honest man, M. d’Artagnan, and because my 
soners are fed like potentates.” 
“Well, you are in a fair way to get out of your difficulties ; give you 
a good attack of indigestion with your excellent living, and put you 
out of the way between this and midday to-morrow.” 
“ How can you be hard-hearted enough to laugh ?” | 
“Nay, you really afflict me. Come, Baisemeaux, if you can pledg 
your word of honour, do so, that you will not open your lips to any 


about what I am going to say to you,” 


BAISEMEAUX DE MONTLEZUN. 439 


Never, never !” 

You wish to put your hand on Aramis ?” 
Well, go and see where M. Fouquet is.” - 
Why, what connection can there be——” 
| ora stupid youare. Don’t you know that Vannes is in the diocese 
elle-Isle, or Belle-Isle in the diocese of Vannes? Belle-Isle belongs 
[. Fouquet, and M. Fouquet nominated M. d’Herblay to that bishopric ?” 
I see, | see ; you restore me to life again.” 

So much the better. Go and tell M. Fouquet very simply that you 
1 to speak to M. d’Herblay.” 

Of course, of course,” exclaimed Baisemeaux, delightedly. 

wee said D’Artagnan, checking him by a severe look, “ your word of 
our? 

I give you my sacred word of honour,” replied the little man, about to 
off running. 

Where are you going ?”—“ To M. Fouquet’s house. . 
It is useless doing that ; M. Fouquet is playing at cards with the king. 
you can do is to pay M. Fouquet a visit early to-morrow morning.” 

‘I willdo so, Thank you.” 

‘Good luck attend you,” said D’Artagnan.——“ Thank you.” 

‘This is a strange affair,” murmured D/’Artagnan, as he slowly 
ended the staircase after he had left Baisemeaux. “ What possible 
srest can Aramis have in obliging Baisemeaux in this manner ? Well, 
uppose we shall learn some day or another.” 


“ At any cost.” 


” 


CHAPTER XCVII. 
THE KING’S CARD-TABLE. 


UQUET was present, as D’Artagnan had said, at the king’s card-table. 
seemed as if Buckingham’s departure had shed a balm upon all the 
erated hearts of the previous evening. Monsieur, radiant with delight, 
de a thousand affectionate signs to his mother. The Count de Guiche 
ild not separate himself from Buckingham, and while playing, con- 
‘sed with him upon the circumstances of his projected voyage. Buck- 
sham, thoughtful, and kind in his manner, like a man who has adopted 
esolution, listened to the count, and from time to time cast a look full of 
sret and hopeless affliction at Madame. The princess, in the midst of 
r elation of spirits, divided her attention between the king, who was 
vying with her, Monsieur, who quietly joked her about her enormous 
nnings, and De Guiche, who exhibited an extravagant delight. Of 
ickingham she took but little notice, for her, this fugitive, this exile, was 
w simply a remembrance, and no longer a man. Light hearts are thus 
nstituted ; while they themselves continue untouched, they roughly break 
f with every one who may possibly interfere with their little calculation of 
lish comforts. Madame had received Buckingham’s smiles and attentions 
d sighs, while he was present ; but what was the good of sighing, smiling, 
id kneeling at a distance? Can one tell in what direction the winds in 
e Channel, which toss the mighty vessels to and fro, carry such sighs as 
ese? The duke could not conceal this change, and his heart was cruelly 
it at it. Ofa sensitive character, proud, and susceptible of deep attach- 
ent, he cursed the day on which the passion had entered his heart. The 
oks which he cast, from time to time, at Madame, became colder by 
-srees at the chilling complexion of his thoughts. He could hardly yet 


440 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


despair, but he was strong enough toimpose silence upon the tumultuous out 
cries of his heart. In exact proportion, however, as Madame suspected thi: 
change of feeling, she redoubled her activity to regain the ray of ligh 
which she was about to lose; her timid and indecisive mind was first dis 
played in brilliant flashes of wit and humour. At any cost, she felt tha 
she must be remarked above everything and every one, even above the 
king himself. And she was so, for the queens, notwithstanding thei 
dignity, and the king, despite the respect which etiquette required, were 
all eclipsed by her. The queens, stately and ceremonious, were softened 
and could not restrain their laughter. Madame Henrietta, the queen 
mother, was dazzled by the brilliancy which cast distinction upon he 
family, thanks to the wit of the grand-daughter of Henry IV. The king, s 
jealous, as a young man and as a monarch, of the superiority of those whe 
surrounded him, could not resist admitting himself vanquished by tha 
petulance so thoroughly French in its nature, and whose energy was more 
than ever increased by its English humour. Like a child, he was capti 
vated by her radiant beauty, which her wit made still moreso. Madame’: 
eyes flashed like lightning. Wit and humour escaped from her ruby lips 
like persuasion from the lips of Nestor of old. The whole court, subduec 
by her enchanting grace, noticed, for the first time, that laughter could” 
indulged in before the greatest monarch in the world, like people whc 
merited their appellation of the wittiest and most polished people in th 
world. 

Madame, from that evening, achieved and enjoyed a success capable o 
bewildering whomsoever it might be, who had not been born in those 
elevated regions termed a throne, and which, in spite of their elevation 
are sheltered from similar vertigoes. From that very moment Louis XIV. 
acknowledged Madame as a person who might be recognised. Bucking: 
ham regarded her as a coguette deserving the cruellest tortures, and De 
Guiche looked upon her as a divinity ; the courtiers as a star whose ligh 
might become the focus of all favour and power. And yet Louis XIV., < 
few years previously, had not even condescended to offer his hand to tha 
“uoly girl” for a ballet; and yet Buckingham had worshipped thi: 
coguette in the humblest attitude ; and yet De Guiche had looked upor 
this divinity as a mere woman; and yet the courtiers had not dared tc 
extol this star in her upward progress, fearful to displease the monarcl 
whom this star had formerly displeased. | 

Let us see what was taking place during this memorable evening at th¢ 
king’s card-table. The young queen, although Spanish by birth, and the 
niece of Anne of Austria, loved the king, and could not conceal her affec 
tion. Anne of Austria, a keen observer, like all women, and imperious 
like every queen, was sensible of Madame’s power, and acquiesced in 1 
immediately, a circumstance which induced the young queen to raise th 
siege and retire to her apartments. The king hardly paid any attentio 
to her departure, notwithstanding the pretended symptoms of indispositio1 
by which it was accompanied. Encouraged by the rules of etiquette whicl 
he had begun to introduce at the court, as an element of every positior 
and relation of life, Louis X{V. did not disturb himself; he offered hi: 
hand to Madame without looking at Monsieur his brother, and led thi 
young princess to the door of her apartments. It was remarked, that a 
the threshold of the door, his majesty, freed from every restraint, or les: 
strong than the situation, sighed very deeply. The ladies present—fo 
nothing escapes a woman’s observation—Mademoiselle Montalais fo 
instance—did not fail to say to each other, “the king sighed,” and “ Madam 


THE KING’S CARD‘TABLE. 44t 


sighed too.” This had been indeed the case. Madame had sighed very 
noiselessly, but with. an accompaniment very far more dangerous for the 
King’s repose. Madame had sighed, first closing her beautiful black eyes, 
next opening them, and then, laden as they were, with an indescribable 
nournfulness of expression, she had raised them towards the king, whose 
‘ace at that moment had visibly heightened in colour. The consequence 
»f these blushes, of these interchanged sighs, and of this royal agitation, 
vas, that Montalais had committed an indiscretion, which had certainly 
uffected her companion, for Mademoiselle de la Valliére, less clear-sighted 
erhaps, turned pale when the king blushed ; and her attendance being 
equired upon Madame, she tremblingly followed the princess, without 
hinking of taking the gloves, which court etiquette required her to do. 
[rue it is that this young country girl might allege as her excuse the 
igitation into which the king seemed to be thrown, for Mademoiselle de 
a Vallitre, busily engaged in closing the door, had involuntary fixed her 
‘yes upon the king, who, as he retired backwards, had his face towards it. 
Che king returned to the room where the card-tables were set out. He 
vished to speak to the different persons there, but it could easily be seen 
hat his mind was absent. He jumbled different accounts together, which 
as taken advantage of by some of the noblemen who had retained those 
fabits since the time of Monsieur Mazarin, he who had memory, but was 
| good calculator. In this way, Monsieur Manicamp, with a thoughtless 
nd absent air,—for Monsieur Manicamp was the honestest man in the 
vorld, appropriated simply 20,000 francs, which were littering the table, 
nd the ownership of which did not seem legitimately to belong to any 
erson in particular. In the same way, Monsieur de Wardes, whose head 
vas doubtless a little bewildered by the occurrences of the evening, some- 
iow forgot to leave the sixty double louis which he had won for the Duke 
f Buckingham, and which the Duke, incapable, like his father, of soiling 
us hands with coin of any sort, had left lying on the table before him. 
the king only recovered his attention in some degree at the moment that 
Monsieur Colbert, who had been narrowly observant for some minutes, 
pproached, and, doubtless, with great respect, yet with much perseve- 
ance, whispered a counsel of some sort into the still tingling ears of the 
ing. The king, at the suggestion, listened with renewed attention, and 
nmediately looking around him, said, “Is Monsieur Fouquet no longer 
erer. 

“Yes, sire, I am here,” replied the surintendant, who was engaged with 
suckingham, and approached the king, who advanced a step towards him 
ith a smiling yet negligent air. “Forgive me,” said Louis, “if I interrupt 
our conversation ; but I claim your attention wherever I may require 
our services.” 

“I am always at the king’s service,” replied Fouquet. 

‘And your cash-box, too,” said the king, laughing with a false smile. 

“ My cash-box more than anything else,” said Fouquet, coldly. 

“ The fact is, I wish to give a /¢¢e at Fontainebleau, to keep open house 
yr fifteen days, and I shall require ” and he stopped, glancing at Col: 
ert, Fouquet waited without showing discomposure ; and the king re- 
imed, answering Colbert’s cruel smile, “‘ Four millions of francs.” 

“Four millions,” repeated Fouquet, bowing profoundly. And his nails, 
uried in his bosom, were thrust into his flesh, the tranquil expression of 
is face remaining unaltered. “ When will they be required, sire 2” 
“Take your time,—I mean—no, no ; as soon as possible,” \ 

“ A certain time will be necessary, sire.” : 


Ss. = peteiaes 


442 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“ Time !” exclaimed Colbert, triumphantly. | 

‘he time, monsieur,” said the surintendant, with the haughtiest dis- 
dain, “simply to count the money; a million only can be drawn and 
weighed in a day.” 

“ Four days, then,” said Colbert. 

“ My clerks,” replied Fouquet, addressing himself to the king, “ will 
perform wonders for his majesty’s service, and the sum shall be ready ir 
three days.” 

It was for Colbert now to turn pale. Louis looked at him astonished. 
Fouquet withdrew without any parade or weakness, smiling at his numer- 
ous friends, in whose countenances alone he read the sincerity of thei 
friendship—an interest partaking of compassion. | Fouquet, however, 
should not be judged by his smile, for, in reality, he felt as if he had beer 
stricken by death. Drops of blood beneath his coat stained the fine 
linen which covered his chest. His dress concealed the blood, and his 
smile the rage which devoured him. His domestics perceived, by the 
manner in which he approached his carriage, that their master was not it 
the best of humours ; the result of their discernment was, that his order: 
were executed with that exactitude of manceuvre which is found on boar 
a man-of-war, commanded during a storm by a passionate captain. ~ Th 
carriage, therefore, did not simply roll along, but flew. Fouquet hac 
hardly had time to recover himself during the drive; on his arrival hc 
went at once to Aramis, who had not yet retired for the night. As fo 
Porthos, he had supped very agreeably from a roast leg of mutton, twe 
pheasants, and a perfect heap of cray-fish ; he then directed his body t« 
be anointed with perfumed oils, in the manner of the wrestlers of old ; anc 
when the anointment was completed, he was wrapped in flannels and placec 
in a warm bed. Aramis, as we have already said, had not retired. Seatec 
at his ease in a velvet dressing-gown, he wrote letter after letter in tha 
fine and hurried handwriting, a page of which contained a quarter of : 
volume. The door was thrown hurriedly open, and the surintendan 
appeared, pale, agitated, and anxious. Aramis looked up: “Good evening, 
said he; and his searching look detected his host’s sadness and disorderex 
state of mind. “Was the play good at his majesty’s?” asked Aramis, a 
a way of beginning the conversation. 

Fouquet threw himself upon a couch, and then pointed to the door ti 
the servant who had followed him; when the servant had left he said 
“Excellent.” | 

Aramis, who had followed every movement with his eyes, noticed tha 
he stretched himself upon the cushions with a sort of feverish impatience 
“You have lost as usual ?” inquired Aramis, his pen still in his hand. 

“ Better than usual,” replied Fouquet. 

“You know how to support losses.” “* Sometimes.” 

“What, Monsieur Fouqueét a bad player !” 

“ There is play and play, Monsieur d’Herblay.” 

“ How much have you lost?” inquired Aramis, with a slight uneasiness 

Fouquet collected himself a moment, and then, without the slightes 
emotion, said, “ The evening has cost me four millions,” and a bitter laug] 
drowned the last vibration of these words. 

Aramis, who did not expect such an amount, dropped his pen. “ Fou 
millions !” he said; “ you have lost four millions,—impossible !” 

“Monsieur Colbert held my cards for me,” replied the surintendant 
with a similar bitter laugh. 

: “Ah, now I understand ; so, so, a new application for funds?” 


THE RING'S CARD: TABLE. 443 


“Ves, and from the king’s own lips. It is impossible to destroy a man 

ith a more charming smile. What do you think of it ?” 

“Tt is clear that your ruin is the object in view.” 

“That is still your opinion ?” 

“Still. Besides, there is nothing in it which should astonish you, fot 
e have foreseen it all along.” 

“Ves ; but I did not expect four millions.” 

“No doubt the amount is serious; but after all, four millions are not 
jite the death of a man, especially when the man in question is Monsieur 
ouquet.” 

“ My dear D’Herblay, if you knew the contents of my coffers, you would 
e less easy.” 

“ And you promised ?”——“ What could I do?” 

* That’s true.” 

“The very day when I refuse, Colbert will procure it; whence I know 
ot, but he will procure the money, and I shall be lost.” 

‘There is no doubt of that. In how many days hence have you pro- 
iised these four millions ?” 

“In three days ; the king seemed exceedingly pressed.” 

“Tn three days?” 

“ When I think,” resumed Fouquet, “that just now, as I passed along 
he streets, the people cried out, ‘ There is the rich Monsieur Fouquet,’ it 
s enough to turn my brain.” 

“Stay, monsieur, the matter is not worth the trouble,” said Aramis, 
‘almly, sprinkling some sand over the letter he had just written. 

“ Suggest a remedy, then, for this evil without a remedy.” 

“ There is only one remedy for you,—pay.” 

“ But it is very uncertain whether I have the money. Everything must 
se exhausted : Belle-Isle is paid for; the pension has been paid ; and 
noney, since the investigation of the accounts of those who farm the 
evenue, is rare. Besides, admitting that I pay this time, how can I do 
so on another occasion? When kings have tasted money, they are like 
igers who have tasted flesh, they devour everything. The day will arrive 
must arrive—when I shall have to say, ‘Impossible, sire,’ and on that 
very day I am a lost man.” 

Aramis raised his shoulders slightly, saying, “A man in your position, 
my lord, is only lost when he wishes to be so.” 

“ A man, whatever his position may be, cannot hope to struggle against 
a king.” 

.* Nomuent ; when I was young I struggled successfully with the 
Cardinal Richelieu, who was king of France,—nay more—cardinal.” 

“ Where are my armies, my troops, my treasures? I have not even 
Belle-Isle.” 

“ Bah ! necessity is the mother of invention, and when you think all is 

lost, something will be discovered which shall save everything.” 

‘Who will discover this wonderful something ??——“ Yourself.” 

“T! J resign my office of inventor.”——“ Then I will.” 

“Be itso. But then, set to work without delay.” 

“Oh! we have time enough !” 

“You kill me, D’Herblay, with your calmness,” said the surintendant, 
passing his handkerchief over his face. 

“Do you not remember that I one day told you not to make yourself 

‘uneasy, if you possess but courage. Have you any ?” 

“T believe so.” 


44 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“ Then don’t make yourself uneasy.” 

“Tt is decided then, that, at the last moment, you will come to my 
assistance.” 

“Tt will only be the repayment of a debt I owe you.” 

“It is the vocation of financiers to anticipate the wants of men such as 
yourself, D’Herblay.” 1 eas: 

“If obligingness is the vocation of financiers, charity is a virtue of the 
clergy. Only, on this occasion, do youact, monsieur. You are not yet suffi- 
ciently reduced, and at the last moment we shall see what is to be done.” 

‘We shall see then in a very short time.” 

“Very well. However, permit me to tell you that, personally, I regret 
exceedingly that you are at present so short of money, because I was my- 
self about to ask you for some.” P 

“¢ For yourself?” 

“ For myself, or some of my people, for mine or for ours.” 

“ How much do you want ?” 

“ Be easy on that score; a roundish sum, it is true, but not too ex- 
orbitant.” 

“Tell me the amount.”——“ Fifty thousand francs.” 

“Oh! a mere nothing. Of course one has always 50,000 francs. Wily 
the deuce cannot that knave Colbert be as easily satisfied as you are ; 
and I should give myself far less trouble than I do. When do you need 
this sum ?” 

“To-morrow morning ; but you require to know its destination.” 

“ Nay, nay, chevalier, I need no explanation.” 

“To-morrow is the first of June.”.——“ Well?” 

“ One of our bonds becomes due.” 

“T did not know we had any bonds.” 

“Certainly ; to-morrow we pay our last third instalment.” 

What third ?” | 

“ Of the 150,000 to Baisemeaux.”—-—“ Baisemeaux—who is he ?” 

“ The governor of the Bastille.” 

“Yes, | remember ; on what grounds am I to pay 150,000 for that man ?” 

“On account of the appointment which he, or rather we, purchased from 
Louviére and Tremblay.” 

“] have a very vague recollection of the whole matter.” 

“That is likely enough, for you have so many affairs to attend to ; how- 
ever, I do not believe you have any affair of greater importance than this 
one.” 

“ Tell me, then, why we purchased this appointment.” 

“Why, in order to render him a service, in the first place, and afterwards 
ourselves.” 

“Ourselves? You are joking.” 

“*Monseigneur, the time may come when the governor of the Bastille 
may prove a very excellent acquaintance.” 

“T have not the good fortune to understand you, D’Herblay.” 

“Monseigneur, we have our own poets, our own engineer, our own 
architect, our own musicians, our own printer, and our own painters ; we 
needed our own governor of the Bastille.” 

“Do you think so ?” 

“Let us not deceive ourselves, monselgneur ; we are very much exposed 
to paying the Bastille a visit,” added the prelate, displaying, beneath his 
pale lips, teeth which were still the same beautiful teeth so admired thirty 
years previously by Marie Michon. 


47 


THE KING'S CARD-TABLE. 44% 


“ And you think it is not too much to pay 150,000 for that? I assure 

you that you generally put out your money at better interest than that.” 

“ The day will come when you will admit your mistake.” 

“My dear D’Herblay, the very day on which a man enters the Bastille, 

he is no longer protected by the past.” 

“Yes, he is, if the bonds are perfectly regular ; besides, that good fellow 
-Baisemeaux has not a courtier’s heart. I am certain, my lord, that he will 
- not remain ungrateful for that money, without taking into account, I repeat, 
*that I retain the acknowledgments.” 

“It is a strange affair, usury in a matter of benevolence !” 

“Do not mix yourself up with it, monseigneur ; if there be usury, it is I 

who practise it, and both of us reap the advantage from it—that is all.” 

“ Some intrigue, D’Herblay ?”>——-“I do not deny it.” 

“ And Baisemeaux an accomplice in it ?” 

“Why not? there are worse accomplices than he. May I depend, then, 

upon the 5,000 pistoles to-morrow ?” 

“Do you want them this evening ?” 

“Tt would be better, for I wish to start early ; poor Baisemeaux will not 

be able to imagine what has become of me, and must be upon thorns.” 

“You shall have the amount in an hour. Ah, D’Herblay, the interest of 

your 150,000 francs will never pay my four millions for me !” 

“Why not, monseigneur ?” 

“ Good-night ; I have business to transact with my clerks before I retire.” 

“A good night’s rest, monseigneur.” 

* D’Herblay, you wish that which is impossible.” 

“ Shall I have my 50,000 francs this evening ?” “Ves,” 

“Go to sleep, then, in perfect safety ; it is I who tell you to do so.” 

Notwithstanding this assurance, and the tone in which it was given, 

Fouquet left the room shaking his head, and heaving a sigh. 


CHAP iw SCV ITA, 
M. BAISEMEAUX DE MONTLEZUN’S ACCOUNTS. 


THE clock of St. Paul’s was striking seven as Aramis, on horseback, dressed 
as a simple citizen—that is to say, in a coloured suit, with no distinctive 
mark about him, except a kind of hunting-knife by his side—passed before 
the Street du Petit-Musc, and stopped opposite the Street des Tourelles, 
at the gate of the Bastille. Two sentinels were on duty at the gate ; they 
raised no difficulty about admitting Aramis, who entered without dismount- 
ing, and they pointed out the way he was to go bya long passage with 
buildings on both sides. This passage led to the drawbridge, or, in other 
words, to the real entrance. The drawbridge was down, and the duty of 
the day was about being entered upon. The sentinel on duty at the outer 
guard-house stopped Aramis’s further progress, asking him, in a rough 
tone of voice, what had brought him there. Aramis explained, with his 
usual politeness, that a wish to speak to M. Baisemeaux de Montlezun 
had occasioned his visit. The first sentinel then summoned a second 
sentinel, stationed within an inner lodge, who showed his face at the 
grating, and inspected the new arrival very attentively. Aramis reiterated 
the expression of his wish to see the governor, whereupon the sentinel 
called to an officer of lower grade, who was walking about in a tolerably 
spacious courtyard, and who, in his turn, on being informed of his object, 
ran to seek one of the officers of the governor’s staff. The latter, after 


446 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


having listened to Aramis’s request, begged him to wait a moment, then 
went away a short distance, but returned to ask his name. “I cannot tell 
it you, monsieur,” said Aramis ; “I would only mention that I have matters 
of such importance to communicate to the governor, that I can only rely 
beforehand upon one thing, that M. de Baisemeaux will be delighted to 
see me ; nay, more than that, when you shall have told him that it is the : 
person whom he expected on the 1st of June, I am convinced he will hasten 
here himself.” The officer could not possibly believe that a man of the , 
governor’s importance should put himself out for a man of so little import~ 
ance as the citizen-looking person on horseback. “It happens most for- 
tunately, monsieur,” he said, “that the governor is just going out, and you 
can perceive his carriage, with the horses already harnessed, in the court- 
yard yonder ; there will be no occasion for him to come to meet you, as 
he will see you as he passes by.” Aramis bowed to signify his assent ; 
he did not wish to inspire others with too exalted an opinion of himself, 
and therefore waited patiently and in silence, leaning upon the saddle-bow 
of his horse. ‘Ten minutes had hardly elapsed when the governor's car- 
riage was observed to move. The governor appeared at the door, got into 
the carriage, which immediately prepared to start. The same ceremony 
was observed for the governor himself as had been the case with a sus- 
pected stranger: the sentinel at the lodge advanced as the carriage was | 
about to pass under the arch, and the governor opened the carriage-door, 
himself setting the example of obedience to orders ; so that, in this way, 
the sentinel could convince himself that no one quitted the Bastille impro- 
perly. The carriage rolled along under the archway, but, at the moment 
the iron gate was opened, the officer approached the carriage, which had 
been again stopped, and said something to the governor, who immediately 
put his head out of the doorway, and perceived Aramis on horseback at 
the end of the drawbridge. He immediately uttered almost a shout of de- 
light, and got out, or rather darted out, of his carriage, running towards 
Aramis, whose hands he seized, making a thousand apologies. He almost 
kissed him. “ What a difficult matter to enter the Bastille !” said Aramis. _ 
“Ts it the same for those who are sent here against their wills, as for those 
who come of their own accord ?” 

“ A thousand pardons, my lord. How delighted I am to see your grace.” 

“Hush! What are you thinking of, my dear M. Baisemeaux, what do- 
you suppose would be thought of a bishop in my present costume ?” 

“Pray excuse me, I had forgotten. Take this gentleman’s horse to the 
stables,” cried Baisemeaux. 

“No, no,” said Aramis, “I have 5,000 pistoles in the portmanteau.” 

The governor’s countenance became so radiant, that if the prisoners had 
seen him, they would have imagined some prince of the blood royal had 
arrived. “ Yes, you are right, the horse shall be taken to the government 
house. Will you get into the carriage, my dear M. d’Herblay, and it shall 
take us back to my house.” 

“‘ Getinto a carriage to cross a courtyard ! do you believe I am so great an 
invalid? No, no, we will go on foot.” 

Baisemeaux then offered his arm as a support, but the prelate did not 
acceptit. They arrived in this manner at the government house, Baise- 
meaux rubbing his hands and glancing at the horse from time to time, 
while Aramis was looking at the black and bare walls. <A tolerably hand- 
some vestibule, a straight staircase of white stone, led to the governor’s| 
apartments, who crossed the antechamber, the dining-room, where break- 
fast was being prepared, opened a small side door, and closeted himself 


M. BAISEMEAUX DE MONTLEZUN’S ACCOUNTS. 447 


ith his guest in a large cabinet, the windows of which opened obliquely 
on the courtyard and the stables. Baisemeaux installed the prelate with 
at obsequious politeness of which a good man or a grateful man, alone 
»ssesses the secret. An armchair, a footstool, a small table beside him, 
1 which to rest his hand, everything was prepared by the governor him- 
‘If. With his own hands, too, he placed upon the table, with an almost 
ligious solicitude, the bag containing the gold, which one of the soldiers 
id brought up with the most respectful devotion ; and the soldier 
aving left the room, Baisemeaux himself closed the door after him, drew 
side one of the window-curtains, and looked steadfastly at Aramis to see 
the prelate required anything further. ‘ Well, my lord,” he said, still 
anding up, “ Of all men of their word, you still continue to be the most 
mctual.” 

“Inmatters of business, dear M. de Baisemeaux, exactitude is not a virtue 
aly, but a duty as well.” 

“Ves, in matters of business, certainly ; but what you have with me is 
ot of that character, it is a service you are rendering me.” 

“Come, confess, dear M. de Baisemeaux, that, notwithstanding this 
<actitude, you have not been without a little uneasiness.” 

About your health, I certainly have,” stammered out Baisemeaux. 

“T wished to come here yesterday, but I was not able, as I was too 
itigued,” continued Aramis. Baisemeaux anxiously slipped another cushion 
ehind his guest’s back. ‘“ But,’ continued Aramis, “I promised myself to 
ome and pay you a visit to-day, early in the morning.” 

“You are really very kind, my lord. And it was a good thing for me 
iat I was punctual, I think.” 

“What do you mean ?” 

“Ves, you were going out.” At which latter remark Baisemeaux coloured 
nd said, “ Yes, it is true I was going out.” 

“Then I prevent you,” said Aramis ; whereupon the embarrassment of 
aisemeaux became visibly greater. “I am putting you to inconvenience,” 
e continued, fixing a keen glance upon the poor governor; “if I had 
nown that, I should not have come.” 

“‘ Howcan your lordship imagine that you could ever inconvenience me?” 

“ Confess you were going in search of money.” 

“No,” stammered out Baisemeaux, “no! I assure you I was going 
}——” 

“ Does the governor still intend to go to M. Fouquet,” suddenly called 
ut the major from below. Baisemeaux ran to the window like a mad- 
van. “No, no,” he exclaimed in a state of desperation, “ who the deuce 
; speaking of M. Fouquet? are you drunk below there ; why am I inter- 
upted when I am engaged on business ?” 

“Vou were going to M. Fouquet’s,” said Aramis, biting his lips, “to 
1. Fouquet, the abbé, or the surintendant ?” 

Baisemeaux almost made up his mind to tell an untruth, but he could 
ot summon courage to do so. “To the surintendant,” he said. 

“Tt is true, then, that you were in want of money, since you were going 
> the person who gives it away ?” . 

“JT assure you, my lord # “ You are suspicious of me.” 

“ My dear lord, it was the uncertainty and ignorance in which I was as 
> where you were to be found.” 

“ You would have found the money you require at M. Fouquet’s, for he 
; a man whose hand is always open.” 

‘I swear that I should never have ventured to ask M. Fouquet for 
1oney. I only wished to ask him for your address.” 


| 


448 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“To ask M. Fouquet for my address ?” exclaimed Aramis, opening his 


eves in real astonishment. 
“ Yes,” said Baisemeaux, greatly disturbed by the glance which the pre- 


late fixed upon him, “at M. Fouquet’s, certainly.” 


“ There is no harm in that, dear M. Baisemeaux, only I would ask, why 


ask my address of M. Fouquet os | 
“That I might write to you.” : 
“J understand,” said Aramis, smiling, ‘ but that 1s not what I meant ; 1 
do not ask you what you required my address for, I only ask why youy 


should go to M. Fouquet for it °” 
9 


| 


“Oh !” said Baisemeaux, “as Belle-Isle is the property of M. Fouquet 
and as Belle-Isle is in the diocese of Vannes, and as you are bishop 0 
Vannes i : 

“But, my dear Baisemeaux, since you knew I was bishop of Vannes, 
you had no occasion to ask M. Fouquet for my address. Ne ‘ 

“ Well, monsieur,” said Baisemeaux, completely at bay, if I have acted, 
indiscreetly, I beg your pardon most sincerely.” 

“ Nonsense,” observed Aramis, calmly ; “how can you possibly have, 
acted indiscreetly ?” And while he composed his face, and. continued a 


smile cheerfully on the governor, he was considering how Baisemeauy 
who was not aware of his address, knew, however, that Vannes was his) 
residence. “I will clear all this up,” he said to himself: and then speak- 
ing aloud, added, “ Well, my dear governor, shall we now arrange our 
little accounts ?” 

“T am at your orders, my lord; but tell me beforehand, my lord, 
whether you will do me the honour to breakfast with me as usual ?” 

“ Very willingly indeed.” 

“That’s well,” said Baisemeaux, as he struck the bell before him three 
times. | 

“ What does that mean ?” inquired Aramis. 

“That I have some one to breakfast with me, and that preparations are 
to be made accordingly.” 

“ And you rang thrice. Really, my dear governor, I begin to think you 
are acting ceremoniously with me.” 

“No, indeed. Besides, the least I can do is to receive you in the bes! 
way I can.” 

“But why so ?” 

“Because not a prince, even, could have done what you have done 
for me.” 

‘““ Nonsense, nonsense !” “Nay, I assure you 

“Let us speak of other matters,” said Aramis. “Or rather, tell me hov 
your affairs here are getting on?” 

“ Not over well.”——“ The deuce *” 

“M. de Mazarin was not hard enough.” | 

“ Yes, I see ; you require a government full of suspicion—like that of th 
old cardinal, for instance.” . 

“Yes ; matters went on better under him. The brother of his ‘ grey emi 
nence’ made his fortune in it.” 

“ Believe me, my dear governor,” said Aramis, drawing closer to Bais 
meaux, “a young king is well worth an old cardinal. Youth has it 
suspicions, its fits of anger, its prejudices, as old age has its hatreds, 1 
precautions, and its fears. Have you paid your three years’ profits t 
Louviére and to Tremblay ?” 

‘Most certainly I have.” 


) 


M. BAISEMEAUX DE MONTLEZUN’S ACCOUNTS. 449 


‘So that you have nothing more to give them than the fifty thousand 
ncs which I have brought with me ?”—-—“ Yes,” 

‘Have you not saved anything, then ?” 

‘My lord, in giving the fifty thousand francs of my own to these gentle- 
n, I assure you. that I give them everything I gain. I told M. d’Ar- 
nan so yesterday evening.” 
‘Ah !” said Aramis, whose eyes sparkled for a moment, but became 
nediately afterwards as unmoved as before ; “so you have seen my old 
vnd D’Artagnan; how was he ?” 
* Wonderfully well.” 

‘And what did you say to him, M. de Baisemeaux ?” 

‘I told him,” continued the governor, not perceiving his own thoughtless- 
s; “I told him that I fed my prisoners too well.” 

‘How many have you?’ inquired Aramis, in an indifferent tone of 
Ge. SRE Vou 

‘Well, that is a tolerably round number.” 

‘In former years, my lord, there were, during certain years, as many 
two hundred.” 

Still a minimum of sixty is not to be grumbled at.” 

Perhaps not ; for, to anybody but myself, each prisoner would bring 
wo hundred and fifty pistoles ; for instance, for a prince of the blood 
ave fifty francs a day.” 
| Only you have no prince of the blood; at least, I suppose so,” said 
imis, with a slight tremor in his voice. 

No, thank heaven !—I mean, no, unfortunately.” 

What do you mean by unfortunately ?” 
| Because my appointment would be improved by it. So, fifty francs: 
day for a prince of the blood, thirty-six fora maréchal of France 2 
But you have as many maréchals of France, I suppose, as you have 
ices of the blood ?” 
Alas ! y.. ; it is true that lieutenant-generals and brigadiers pay twenty- 
‘francs, and I have two of them. After that, come the councillors of 
parliament, who bring me fifteen francs, and I have six of them.” 

I did not know,” said Aramis, “that councillors were so productive.” 
Yes ; but from fifteen francs I sink at once to ten francs ; namely, for 
ordinary judge, or for an ecclesiastic.” 

And you have seven, you say: an excellent affair.” 

Nay, a bad one, and for this reason. How can I possibly treat these 
r fellows who are of some good, at all events, otherw’se than as a 
ncillor of the parliament ?” 

Yes, you are right ; I do not see five francs’ difference between them.” 
‘You understand ; if I have a fine fish, I pay four or five francs for it ; 
get a fine fowl, it costs me a franc and a half. I fatten a good deal of 
Itry, but I have to buy grain, and you cannot imagine the multitude of 
; which infest this place.” 
‘Why not get half a dozen cats to deal with them 2” 

Cats indeed ; yes, they eat them, but I was obliged to give up the idea 
‘ause of the way in which they treated my grain. I have been obliged 
lave some terrier dogs sent me from England to kill the rats. The 
's have tremendous appetites ; they eat as much as a prisoner of the 
i! order, without taking into account the rabbits and fowls they kill.” 
‘s Aramis really listening or not? No one could have told ; his down- 
': eyes showed the attentive man, but the restless hand betrayed the 
1 absorbed in thought—Aramis was meditating. “I was saying,” con- 


29 


MH 


le a a ee 


450 THE VICOMTE DLE BRAGELONNE. 
tinued Baisemeaux, “that a tolerable-sized fowl costs me a franc and 
half, and that a good-sized fish costs me four or five francs. Three meal 
are served at the Bastille, and, as the prisoners, having nothing to do, ar 
always eating, a ten-franc man costs me seven francs and a half.” 

“But did you not say that you treated those at ten francs like those ¢ 


miteeny 
“Ves, certainly.” r 
“Very well! Then you gain seven francs and a half upon those wh 
pay you fifteen francs.” 
“7 must compensate myself somehow, 
he had been caught. 
“Vou are quite right, 
below ten francs ?” 
“Oh, yes ! we have citizens and barristers taxed at five francs.” 
“And do they eat too?” 
“ Not a doubt about it; only you understand they do not get fish \ 
poultry, nor rich wines at every meal ; but at all events thrice a week the 


have a good dish at their dinner.” ; 
“ Really, you are quite a philanthropist, my dear governor, and you w 


ruin yourself.” BY pea 

“No; understand me ; when the fifteen francs has not eaten his fo 
er the ten francs has left his dish unfinished, I send it to the five-frai 
prisoner ; it is a feast for the poor devil, and one must be charitable, y« 
know.” 

“ And what do you make out of your five-franc prisoners ?” 

“A franc and a half.” 

“ Baisemeaux, youre an honest fellow ; in honest truth I say so.” 

“Thank you, my lord. But I feel most for the small tradesmen ay 
bailiffs’ clerks, who are rated at three francs. Those do not often s| 
Rhine carp or Channel sturgeon.” | 

“ But do not the five-franc gentlemen sometimes leave some scraps ey 

“Oh: my lord, do not believe 1 am so stingy as that: I delight t, 
heart of some poor little tradesman or clerk by sending him a wing of! 
red partridge, a slice of venison, or a slice of a truffled pasty, dishes whi 
he never tasted except in his dreams ; these are the leavings of the twent 
four-franc prisoners ; and he eats and drinks, at dessert he cries ‘Lo: 
live the king,’ and blesses the Bastille ; with a couple of bottles of chai 
pagne, which cost me five sous, I make him tipsy every Sunday. Th 
class of people call down blessings upon me, and are sorry to leave t 
prison. Do you know that I have remarked, and it does me infin 
honour, that certain prisoners, who have been set at liberty, have, alm« 
immediately afterwards, got imprisoned again? Why should this bet 
case, unless it be to enjoy the pleasures of my kitchen? It is really t 
fact.” Aramis smiled with an expression of incredulity. 

“You smile,” said Baisemeaux.——“‘ I do,” returned Aramis. 

“T tell you that we have names which have been inscribed on our boc 
thrice in the space of two years.” 

“JT must see it before I believe it,” said Aramis. 

“Well, I can show it you, although it is prohibited to communic: 
the registers to strangers ; and if you really wish to see it with your o 
eyes 
Ne] should be delighted, I confess.” 

“ Very well,” said Baisemeaux, and he took out of a cupboard a lat 
register. Aramis followed him most anxiously with his eyes, and Bai 


” said Baisemeaux, who saw ho 


my dear governor ; but have you no prisone, 


M. BAISEMEAUX DE MONTLEZUN'S ACCOUNTS. 451 


ux returned, placed the register upon the table, turned over the leaves 
. minute, and stayed at the letter M. 

Look here,” said he, “ Martinier, January, 1659; Martinier, June, 1660; 
tinier, March, 1661. Mazarinades, &c.; you understand it was onlya 
ext ; people were not sent to the Bastille for jokes against M. Mazarin; 
‘ellow denounced himself in order to get imprisoned here.” 

And what was his object ?” 

None other than to return to my kitchen at three francs the head.” 
Three francs—poor devil !” 

The poet, my lord, belongs to the lowest scale, the same style of board 
he small tradesman and bailiff’s clerk ; but I repeat it is to these 
dle only that I give those little surprises.” 

ramis mechanically turned over the leaves of the register, continuing 
2ad the names, but without appearing to take any interest in the names 
ead. 

In 1661 you perceive,” said Baisemeaux, “ eighty entries ; and in 1659, 
ty also.” 

Ah !’ said Aramis. ‘Seldon; I seem to know that name. Was it 
you who spoke to me about a certain young man ?” 

e§S, a poor devil of a student, who made—What do you call that 
n’ two Latin verses rhyme together ?” 

ti distich.”——*‘ Yes ; that is it.” 

Poor fellow ; for a distich.” 

Do you not know that he made this distich against the Jesuits ?” 
That makes no difference : the punishment seems very severe.” 

Do not pity him ; last year you seemed to interest yourself in him.” 
Yes, I did so.” 

Well, as your interest is all-powerful here, my lord, I have treated him 
e that time as a prisoner at fifteen francs.” 

The same as this one, then,” said Aramis, who had continued turning 
r the leaves, and who had stopped at one of the names which followed 


rtinier.—— Yes, the same as that one.” 
Is that Marchiali an Italian ?” said Aramis, pointing with his finger to 
name which had attracted his attention. ——“ Hush!” said Baisemeaux. 


Why hush ?” said Aramis, involuntarily clenching his white hand. 
I thought I had already spoken to you about that Marchiali.” 
No ; it is the first time I ever heard his name pronounced.” 
That may be; but I may have spoken to you about him without 
ing him.” 
Is he an old offender ?” asked Aramis, attempting to smile. 
On the contrary, he is quite young.” 
Is his crime, then, very heinous ?”»——“ Unpardonable.” 
Has he assassinated any one.”——“ Bah !” 
An incendiary, then ??—-—“ Bah !” 
Has he slandered any one ?” 
No,no! It is he who——” and Baisemeaux approached Aramis’s ear, 
cing a sort of ear-trumpet of his hands, and whispered, “It is he who 
sumes to resemble the ——” 
Yes, yes,” said Aramis, “I now remember you already spoke about it 
year to me; but the crime appeared to me so slight.” 
Slight, do you say ?’——“ Or rather, so involuntary.” 
My lord, it is not involuntarily that such a resemblance is detected.” 
Well, the fact is, I had forgotten it. But, my dear host,” said Aramis, 
ing the register, “if I am not mistaken, we are summoned.” 
~ 29—2 


452 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


Baisemeaux took the register, hastily restored it to its place in the close 
which he closed, and put the key in his pocket. “ Will it be agreeable t 
your lordship to breakfast now 2” said he ; “for you are right in supposin 
that breakfast was announced.” 

“ Assuredly, my dear governor,” and they passed into the dining-roon 


CHAPTER ACES 
THE BREAKFAST OF MONSIEUR DE BAISEMEAUX. 


ARAMIS was generally temperate; but, on this occasion, while takin 
every care with regard to himself, he did ample justice to Baisemeaux 
breakfast, which, in every respect, was most excellent. The Jatter, on h 
side, was animated with the wildest gaiety ; the sight of th?. ethousar. 
pistoles, which he glanced at from time to time, seemed to open his hear 
Every now and then he looked at Aramis with an expression of tl 
deepest gratitude ; while the latter, leaning back in his chair, sipped a fe 
drops of wine from his glass, with the air of a connoisseur... “ Let n 
never hear an ill word against the fare of the Bastille,” said he Alf ‘ 

-his eyes ; “happy are the prisoners who can get only half a bottle 
Burgundy every day.” 

‘4A]l those at fifteen francs drink it,” said Baisemeaux. “It is ver 
Volnay.” 

“Does that poor student, Seldon, drink such good wine ”” 

Oh, 00.7 

“T thought I heard you say he was boarded at fifteen francs.” - 

“He; no, indeed; a man who makes districts—distichs | mean— 
fifteen francs. No, no! it is his neighbour who is at fifteen francs.” 

“Which neighbour ?” “ The other, the second Bertaudiére.” | 

“Excuse me, my dear governor ; but you speak a language which 1 
quires an apprenticeship to understand.” 

“Very true,” said the governor. “Allow me to explain :—the seco1 
Bertaudiére is the person who occupies the second floor of the tower 
the Bertaudiere.” : 

“So that Bertauditre is the name of one of the towers of the Bastill 
The fact is, I think I recollect hearing that each tower has a name of. 
own. Whereabouts is the one you are speaking of ?” 

“Look,” said Baisemeaux, going tothe window. “ It is that tower tot 
left—the second one.” 

“Ts the prisoner at fifteen francs there ?” Wea 

*¢ Since when ?” ‘Seven or eight years, nearly.” 

“ What do you mean by nearly? Do you not know the dates m 
precisely ?” 

“Jt was not in my time, dear M. d’Herblay.” 

“But I should have thought that Louviére or Tremblay would havet 
you.” 

“The secrets of the Bastille are never handed over with the keys of t 
governorship of it.” | 

ms Indeed ! Then the cause of his imprisonment is a mystery—a sti 
secret.’ | 

“Oh, no! Ido not suppose it is a state secret, but a secret like eve 
thing else that happens at the Bastille.” 

“But,” said Aramis, “why do you speak more freely of Seldon than 
the second Bertaudiére ?” 


THE BREAKFAST OF M. DE BAISEMEAUX. 453 


“Because, in my opinion, the crime of the man who writes a distich is 
ot so great as that of the man who resembles——” 

“Yes, yes ; I understand you. Still, -do not the turnkeys talk with your 
“isoners ?”?—-—“ Of course.” 

“The prisoners, I suppose, tell them they are not guilty ?” 

“They are always telling them that ; it is a matter of course ; the same 
yng over and over again.” 

“But does not the resemblance you were speaking about just now strike 
‘e turnkeys ?” 
“My dear M. d’Herblay, it is only for men attached to the court, as you 

e, to take any trouble about such matters.” 

“You're right, you’re right, my dear M. Baisemeaux. Let me give you 
iother taste of this Volnay.” 

“ Not a taste merely, a full glass ; fill yours, too.” 

Nay, nay! You are a musketecr still, to the very tips of your fingers, 
aile I have become abishop. A taste for me; a glass for yourself.’ 

'“ As you please.” And Aramis and the governor nodded to each other, 
they drank their wine. “ But,” said Aramis, looking with fixed attention 
. the ruby-coloured wine he had raised to the level of his eyes, as if 
aghed <o enjoy it with all his senses at the same moment, “but 

2 ingot might call a resemblance, another would not, perhaps, take any 
of. 
ren20st certainly he would, though, if it were any one who knew the 
sjy m he resembles.” 1 ; 

‘qi | really think, dear M. de Baisemeaux, that it can be nothing moree 

_ a resemblance of your own creation.” 

eyUpon my honour, it is not so.” 

'( Stay,” continued Aramis. ‘I have seen many persons very like the 
se we are speaking of; but, out of respect, no one ever said anything 

out it,” 

“Very likely ; because there is resemblance and resemblance. This is 

‘striking one, and if you were to see him, you would admit it to be so.” 

“Tf I were to see him, indeed,” said Aramis, in an indifferent tone; “but 
all probability I never shall.” 

Why not ?” 

““ Because if I were even to put my foot inside one of those horrible 
angeons, I should fancy I was buried there for ever.” 

“No, no ; the cells are very good as places to live in.” 

“JT really do not, and cannot, believe it, and that is a fact.” 

“Pray do not speak ill of the second Bertaudiére. It is really a good 
»0m, very nicely furnished and carpeted. The young fellow has by no 
eans been unhappy there ; the best lodging the Bastille affords has been 
is. There is a chance for you.” 

“Nay, nay,” said Aramis, coldly; “you will never make me believe 
rere are any good rooms in the Bastille ; and, as for your carpets, they 
ist only in your imagination. I should find nothing but spiders, rats, 
nd perhaps toads, too.” 

“Toads ?” said Baisemeaux.——“ Yes, in the dungeons.” 

“Ah! I don’t say there are not toads in the dungeons,” replied Baise- 
reaux. ‘‘ But—will you be convinced by your own eyes?” he continued 
ith sudden impulse. 

*“ No, certainly not.” 

* Not even to satisfy yourself of the resemblance which you deny, as you 
o the carpets ?” 


l 


454 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“ Some spectral-looking person, a mere shadow; an unhappy, dying man 

“ Nothing of the kind—as brisk and vigorous a young fellow as ev: 
lived.” 

“ Melancholy and ill-tempered, then?” 

“Not at all; very gay and lively.” 

‘‘ Nonsense ; you are joking.” 

“Will you follow me?” said Baisemeaux. 

‘What for 2? -—-“ To go the round of the Bastille.” 

“ Why ?”»——* You will then see for yourself—see with your eyes.” 

“ But the regulations ?” 

“Never mind them. To-day my major has leave of absence ; the lie 
tenant is visiting the posts on the bastions; we are masters of the positior 

“ No, no, my dear governor; why, the very idea of the sound of t] 
bolts makes me shudder. You will only have to forget me in the secor 
or fourth Bertaudiére, and then——” 

“Vou are refusing an opportunity that may never present itself agai 
Do you know that, to obtain the favour I propose to you gratis, some 
the princes of the blood have offered me as much as fifty thousand francs 

“Really ! he must be worth seeing, then ?” 

“Forbidden fruit, my lord ; forbidden fruit. You who belong 
church ought to know that.” 

“Well, if I had any curiosity, it would be to see the poor author , 
distich.” 

_ “Very well, we will see him too; but if I were at all curious, it ' 
be about the beautiful carpeted room and its lodger.” 

“Furniture is very commonplace ; and a face with no expression 
offers little or no interest.” eo 

“ But a boarder at fifteen francs is always interesting.” \ 

“ By the bye, I forgot to ask you about that. Why fifteen francs 
him, and only three francs for poor Seldon ?” | 

“The distinction made in that instance was a truly noble act, and o 
which displayed the king’s goodness of heart to great advantage.” ) 

“The king’s, you say ?” : 

“The cardinal’s, I mean ; ‘this unhappy man,’ said M. Mazarin, ‘ 
destined to remain in prison for ever.’” 

“Why so?” 

“Why it seems that his crime is a lasting one; and, consequently, 
punishment ought to be so too.” 

“ Lasting ?” 

“No doubt of it; unless he is fortunate enough to catch the small-p 
and even that is difficult, for we never get any impure air here.” 

“ Nothing can be more ingenious than your train of reasoning, my d 
M. de Baisemeaux. Do you, however, mean to say that this unfortun 
man must suffer without interruption or termination ?” 

“I did not say he was to suffer, my lord; a fifteen-franc boarder d 
not suffer.” 

“ He suffers imprisonment, at all events.” 

“No doubt, there is no help for it; but this suffering is sweetened 
him. You must admit that this young fellow was not born to eat all 
good things he does eat; for instance, such things as we have on the ta 
now ; this pasty that has not been touched, these crawfish from the ri 
Marne, of which we have hardly taken any, and which are almost as la 
as lobsters ; all these things will at once be taken to the second Bert 
diére, with a bottle of that Volnay which you think so excellent. A 
you have seen it, you will believe it, I hope.” | 


} 


\ 


ed 
, 4 


THE BREAKFAST OF M. DE BAISEMEAUX 455 


Yes, my dear governor, certainly ; but all this time you are thinking 
of your very happy fifteen-francs prisoner, and you forget poor Seldon, 
protégé.” 

‘Well, out of consideration for you, it shall be a gala day for him ; he 
Il have some biscuits and preserves with this small bottle of port.” 

You are a good-hearted fellow ; I have said so already, and I repeat 
ny dear Baisemeaux.” 

Well, let us set off, then,” said the governor, a little bewildered, partly 
n the wine he had drunk, and partly from Aramis’s praises. 

‘Do not forget that I only go to oblige you,” said the prelate. 

‘Very well; but you will thank me when you get there.” 

“Let us go, then.” 

‘Wait until I have summoned the gaoler,” said Baisemeaux, as he 
uck the bell twice ; at which summons a man appeared. “I am going 
ist the towers,” said the governor. “No guards, no drums, no noise 
all.” 

“Tf I were not to leave my cloak here,” said Aramis, pretending to be 
armed, “I should really think I was going to prison on my own account.” 
ne gaoler preceded the governor, Aramis walking on his right hand ; 
me of the soldiers who happened to be in the courtyard drew themselves 

) in line, as stiff as posts, as the governor passed along. Baisemeaux 
d the way down several steps which conducted to a sort of esplanade ; 
ence they arrived at the drawbridge, where the sentinels on duty re- 
sived the governor with the proper honours. The governor turned to- 
ards Aramis, and, speaking in such a tone that the sentinels could not 
se a word he said, observed—“ I hope you have a good memory, mon- 
eur ?” 

“ Why ?” inquired Aramis. 

“On account of your plans and your 
0 one is allowed, not architects even, 
ith paper, pens, or pencil.” 

“ Good,” said Aramis to himself, “it seems I am an architect, then? It 
ounds like one of D’Artagnans jokes, who saw me acting as an engineer 
t Belle-Isle.” Then, he added aloud, *‘ Be easy on that score, monsieur ; 
n our profession, a mere glance and a good memory are quite sufficient.” 

Baisemeaux did not change countenance, and the soldiers took Aramis 
or what he seemed to be. “ Very well ; we will first visit la Bertaudiére,” 
‘aid Baisemeaux, still intending the sentinels to hear him. Then, turning 
o the gaoler, he added, “you will take the opportunity of carrying to No. 


2, the few dainties I pointed out.” 
° «Dear M. de Baisemeaux,” said Aramis, “you are always forgetting 


No. 3.” 

“So I am,” said the governor ; and, upon that, they began to ascend. 
The number of bolts, gratings, and locks, for this single courtyard, would 
have sufficed for the safety of an entire city Ar 


amis was neither an 
imaginative nor a sensitive man ; he had been somewhat of a poet in his 
youth, but his heart was 


hard and indifferent, as the heart of every man of 
fifty-five years of age 1s, who has been frequently and passionately attached 
to women in his lifetime, or 


measurements, for you know that 
to enter where the prisoners are, 


rather who has been passionately loved by 
them. But when he placed his foot upon the worn stone steps, along 
which so many unhappy wretches had passed, when he felt himself mpreg - 
nated, as it were, with the atmosphere of those gloomy dungeons, moist- 
ened with tears, there could be but little doubt he was overcome by his 
sem for his head was bowed and his eyes became dim, as he followed » 


Baisemeaux without uttering a syllable. 


456 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


CHAPTER : | 
THE SECOND FLOOR OF LA BERTAUDIERE. 


ON the second flight of stairs, whether from fatigue or emotion, the breat! 
ing of the visitor began to fail him, and he leaned against the wall. “W 
you begin by this one ©” said Baisemeaux ; “for since we are going to bot 
it matters very little whether we ascend from the second to the third stor' 
or descend from the third to the second.” 

“ No, no,” exclaimed Aramis, eagerly, “higher, if you please ; the or 
above is the more urgent.” . They continued their ascent. “ Ask tk 
gaoler for the keys?” whispered Aramis. Baisemaux did so, took tk 
keys, and, himself, opened the door of the third room. The gaoler we 
the first to enter; he placed upon the table the provisions, which th 
kind-hearted governor called dainties, and then left the room. The prisone 
had not stirred ; Baisemeaux then entered, while Aramis remained < 
the threshold, from which place he saw a youth about eighteen years « 
age, who, raising his head at the unusual noise, jumped off the bed, as h 
perceived the governor, and clasping his hands together, began to cry ou 
“My mother, my mother,” in tones which betrayed such deep distres| 
that Aramis, despite his command over himself, felt a shudder pas 
through his frame. ‘“‘ My dear boy,” said Baisemeaux, endeavouring t 
smile, “I have brought you a diversion and an extra—the one for th 
mind, the other for the body ; this gentleman has come to take your med 
sure, and here are some preserves for your dessert.” : 

“Oh, monsieur,” exclaimed the young man, “ keep me in -solitude for ' 
year, let me have nothing but bread and water fora year, but tell me tha 
at the end of a year I shall leave this place, tell me that at the end of . 
year I shall then see my mother again.” 

“But I have heard you say that your mother was very poor, and tha 
you were very badly lodged when you were living with her, while here- 
upon my word !” 

“If she were poor, monsieur, the greater reason to restore her onl 
means of support to her. Badly lodged with her! oh, monsieur, ever 
one is always well lodged when he is free.” 

“At all events, since you yourself admit you have done nothing bt 
write that unhappy distich——” 

“ But without any intention, I swear. Let me be punished,—cut off th 
hand which wrote it, I will work with the other—but restore my mother t 
me.” 

“ My boy,” said Baisemeaux, “ you knowvery well that it does not depen 
upon me ; all I can do for you is to increase your rations, give you } 
glass of port wine now and then, slip in a biscuit for you between a coupl 
of plates.” 

_ “Great heaven !” exclaimed the young man, falling backward and roll 
ing on the ground. : 

Aramis, unable to bear this scene any longer, withdrew as far as th 
landing. ‘“ Unhappy, wretched man !” he murmured 
_ “Yes, monsieur, he is indeed very wretched,” said the gaoler ; “but i 
is his parents’ fault.” 

“In what way ?” 

“No doubt. Why did they let him learn Latin? Too much knowledge 
you see ; it is that which does harm. Now I, for instance, can’t read o 
write, and therefore I am not in prison.” Aramis looked at the man, wh 


THE SECOND FLOOR OF LA BERTAUDIERE. 47 


med to think that being a gaoler in the Bastille was not being in prison. 

for Baisemeaux, noticing the little effect produced by his advice and his 

-t wine, he left the dungeon quite upset. “ You have forgotten to close 
: door,” said the gaoler. 

“So I have,” said Baisemeaux ; “ there are the keys, do you do it.” 

“J will solicit the pardon of that poor boy,” said Aramis. 

“And if you do not succeed,” said Baisemeaux, “at least beg that he 
iy be transferred to the ten franc list, by which both he and | shall be 
iners.” 

“If the other prisoner calls out for his mother in a similar manner,” 
id Aramis, “I prefer not to enter at all, but will take my measure from 
tside.” : 

“No fear of that, monsieur architect, the one we are now going to see 
as gentle as a lamb; before he could call after his mother he must open 
; lips, and he never says a word.” 

“ Let us go in, then,” said Aramis, gloomily. 

Are you the architect of the prisons, monsieur ?” said the gaoler. 

I am.” 

“Tt is odd, then, that you are not more accustomed to all this.” 
yaramis perceived that, to avoid giving rise to any suspicions, he must 
‘amon all his strength of mind to his assistance. Baisemeaux, who car- 
a the keys, opened the door. “Stay outside,” he said to the gaoler, 
ind wait for us at the bottom of the steps.” The gaoler obeyed and 
thdrew. 

Baisemeaux entered the first, and opened the second door himself. By 
e light which filtered through the iron-barred window, could be seen a 
indsome young man, short in stature, with closely cut hair, and a beard 
ginning to grow ; he was sitting on a stool, his elbow resting on an arm- 
air, and all the upper part of his body reclining against it. His dress, 
rown upon the bed, was of rich black velvet, and he inhaled the fresh 
r which blew in upon his breast through a shirt of the very finest cam- 
ic. As the governor entered, the young man turned his head with a look 
ll of indifference ; and on recognising Baisemeaux, he arose and saluted 
m courteously. But when his eyes fell upon Aramis, who remained in 
e background, the latter trembled, turned pale, and his hat, which he 
Id in his hand, fell upon the ground as if all his muscles had become 
laxed at once. Baisemeaux, habituated to the presence of his prisoner, 
d not seem to share any of the sensations which Aramis experienced, but, 
ith all the zealof a good servant, he busied himself in arranging on the 
ble the pasty and crawfish he had brought with him. Occupied in this 
anner, he did not remark how disturbed his guest had become. When he 
1d finished, however, he turned to the young prisoner and said, “ You are 
oking very well,—are you so ?” 

“ Quite well, I thank you, monsieur,” replied the young man. 

The effect of the voice was such as almost to overpower Aramis, and, 
otwithstanding his command over himself, he advanced a few steps to- 
ards him, with his eyes wide open, and his lips trembling. The move- 
ent he made was so marked that Baisemeaux, notwithstanding his 
ccupation, observed it. “ This gentleman is an architect who has come 
examine your chimney,” said Baisemeaux ; “ does it smoke ?” 

“ Never, monsieur.” 

“You were saying just now,” said the governor rubbing his hands 
gether, “ that it was not possible for a man to be happy in prison ; here, 
owever, is one who is so. You have nothingto complain of, | hope?” 

“ Nothing.” 


| 


458 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“ Do you ever feel wearied ?” said Aramis.———“ Never,” 

“Ha, ha!” said Baisemeaux, in a low tone of voice ; “was I right ?” 

“ Well, my dear governor, it 1s impossible not to yield to evidence, Is 
it allowed to put any questions to him?” 

“ As many as you like.” 

“Very well; be good enough to ask him if he knows why he is here.” 

“This gentleman requests me to ask you,” said Baisemeaux, ‘af you 
are aware of the cause of your imprisonment ?” 

“No, monsieur,” said the young man, unaffectedly, “I am not.” 

“That is hardly possible,” said Aramis, carried away by his feelings, in 
spite of himself ; “if you weie really ignorant of the cause of your deten- 
tion, you would be furious.” 

“Twas so during the earlier days of my imprisonment.” 

“ Why are you not so now ?’——=“ Because I have 1eflected.” 

“ That is strange,” said Aramis. ——“‘ Is it not odd 2” said Baisemeaux. | 

“ May one venture to ask you, monsieur, on what you have reflected ?” 

“T felt that, as I had committed no crime, Heaven could not punish me.” 

“ What isa prison, then,” inquired Aramis, “ if it be not a punishment ?” 

“ Alas ! I cannot tell,” said the young man; “all that I can tell you now' 
is the very opposite of what I felt seven years ago.” : yaad 

“To hear you converse, to witness your resignation, one might alm©5s 
believe that you liked your imprisonment.” eal 
“T endure it.” ut 

“Tn the certainty of recovering your freedom some day, I suppose ?” ‘ 

“T have no certainty ; hope I have, and that is all; and yet | acknow 
ledge that this hope bcomes less every day.” 

“Still, why should you not again be free, since you have already been so?” 

“ That is precisely the reascn,” replied the young man, “ which prevents 
me expecting liberty: why should I have been imprisoned at all, if it hac 
been intended to release me afterwards ?” 

“ How old are you ?”——“ I do not know.” 

“What is your name ?” 

“T have forgotten the name by which I was called.” 

“ Who are your parents ?’——“ I never knew them.” 

“ But those who brought you up ?” 

“They did not call me their son.” 

“ Did you ever love any one before coming here i 

“T loved my nurse, and my flowers.” 

‘Was that all ?”?——‘‘I also loved my valet.” 

“Do you regret your nurse and your valet ?” 

“TI wept very much when they died.” 

“Did they die since you have been here, or before you came?” 

“They died the evening before I was carried off.” 

“ Both at the same time ?” “Yes, both at the same time.” 

“In what manner were you carried off?” 

“A man came for me, directed me to get into a carriage, which wa 
closed and locked, and brought me here.” 

“ Would you be able to recognise that man again ?” 

“He was masked.” 

“Is not this an extraordinary tale ?” said Baisemeaux, in a low tone ¢ 
voice, to Aramis, who could hardly breathe. 

“Tt is indeed extraordinary,” he murmured. 


“ But what is still more extraordinary is, that he has never told me ¢ 
much as he has just told you.” 


l 


THE SECOND FLOOR OF LA BERTAUDIERE. 489 


“ Ferhaps the reason may be that you have never questioned him,” said 
‘amis. 

“Tt’s possible,” replied Baisemeaux ; “T have no curiosity. Have you 
sked at the room ; it’s a fine one, is it not °” ; 
“Very much so.” 

“ A carpet——’——“ Beautiful.” 

“ [1 wager he had nothing like it before he came here.” 

“J think so, too.” And then, again turning towards the young man, he 


. 


id, “ Do you not remember to have been visited, at some time or another, 

>a strange lady or gentleman e 

“Yes, indeed ; thrice by a woman, who each time came to the door in a 

rriage, and entered covered with a veil, which she raised when we were 

gether and alone.” . 
“ Do you remember that woman ”—_—“ Yes,” 

‘What did she say to you?” 

The young man smiled mournfully, and then replied : “She inquired, 

; you have just done, if I were happy, and if I were getting weary.” 
«What did she do on arriving, and on leaving you 4 

jf She pressed me in her arms, held me in her embrace, and kissed me.” 
Wo you remember her ?’——“ Perfectly.” 

Do you recail her features distinctly ?,——“ Yes.” 

FYou would recognise her, then, if accident brought her before you, or 

you into her presence ?” 


‘Most certainly.” 
A flush of fleeting satisfaction passed across Aramis’s face. At this 


oment Baisemeaux heard the gaoler approaching. “ Shall we leave ?” 
e said, hastily, to Aiamis. 

Aramis, who probably had learnt all that he cared to know, replied, 
When you like.” 

The young man saw them prepare to leave, and saluted them politely. 
aisemeaux replied merely by a nod of the head ; while Aramis, with a 
sspect arising, perhaps, from the sight of such misfortune, saluted the 
risoner profoundly. They left the room, Baisemeaux closing the door 


ehind them. 
“Well,” said Baisemeaux, as they descended the staircase, “what do 


ou think of it all ?” 

“ T have discovered the secret, my dear governor,” he said. 

“Bah! What is the secret, then ?” 

“ A murder was committed in that house.” “ Nonsense !” 

“ But attend : the valet and the nurse died the same day.” —-—“ Well ?” 

“ And by poison. What do you think ?” 

“That it is very likely to be true.” 

“ What—that that young man is an assassin ?” 

“ Who said that? What makes you think that poor young fellow could 
ye an assassin ?” 

“The very thing I was saying. A crime was committed in his house,” 
aid Aramis, “and that was quite sufficient ; perhaps he saw the crimi- 
vals, and it was feared he might say something.” 

“The deuce ! if I only thought that——’ Well 2” 

] would redouble the surveillance.” 

‘Oh, he does not seem to wish to escape.” 

“ You do not know what prisoners are.” 

“Has he any books ?”——“ None; they are strictly prohibited, and 


under M. de Mazarin’s own hand.” 


460 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE,. 


“ Have you the writing still ?’——“ Yes, my lord ; would you like to 
look at it as you return to take your cloak ?” 

“ T should, for I like to look at autographs.” 

“Well, then, this one is of the most unquestionable authenticity ; there 
is only one erasure.’ “Ah, ah! an erasure ; and in what respect ?” 

“ With respect to a figure. At first there was written : ‘To be boarded 
at 50 francs.’ ” ‘As princes of the blood, in fact ?” 

*“ But the cardinal must have seen his mistake, you understand, for 
he cancelled the zero, and has added a1 before the 5. But, by- the- 
b aE) 

“What ?” “ You do not speak of the resemblance.” 

“‘T do not speak of it, dear M. de Baisemeaux, for a very simple reason, 
—because it does not exist.”——-“ The deuce it doesn’t.” 

“Or, if it does exist, it is only in your own imagination ; but, supposin 
it were to exist elsewhere, I think it would be better for you not to spea 
about it.” “ Really.” 

“ The king, Louis XIV.—you understand—would be excessively angry 
with you, if he were to learn that you contributed, in any way, to spread 
the report that one of his subjects has the effrontery to resemble him.’ 

“Tt is true, quite true,” said Baisemeaux, thoroughly alarmed ; 
have not spoken of the circumstance to any one but yourself, and mrs 
understand, monseigneur, that I perfectly rely on your being discreet. *° 

=Oh,-be “easy.” MS 

“Do you still wish to see the note ?>-—“ Certainly.” Qe 

While engaged in this manner in conversation, they had returned to tlY 
governor's apartments ; Baisemeaux took from the cupboard a private 
register, like the one he had already shown Aramis, but fastened by a lock 
the key which opened it being one of a small bunch of keys which Baise 
meaux always carried with him. Then placing the book upon the table 
he opened it at the letter “ M,” and showed Aramis the following note in the 
column of observations :—“ Nobooksat any time, all linenand clothes of the 
finest and best quality to be procured ; no exercise ; always the same gaoler 
no communications with any one. Musical instruments ; every liberty 
and every indulgence, which his welfare may require ; to be boarded a’ 
fifteen francs. M. de Baisemeaux can claim more, if the fifteen francs be 
not sufficient.” 

“ Ah,” said Baisemeaux, “ now I think of it, I shall claim it.” 

Aramis shut the book. “ Yes,” he said, “it is indeed M. de Mazarin’ 
handwriting ; I recognise it well. Now, my dear governor,” he continued 
as if this last communication had exhausted his interest, “let us now tur 
to our own little affairs.” 

“Well, what time for payment do you wish me to take. Fix it your 

self.” 
“There need not be any particular period fixed: give me a simpli 
acknowledgment for 150,000 francs.” —-—“* When to be made payable ?” 

“ When I require it. But you understand, I shall only wish it when yor 
yourself do so.’ 

‘Oh, I am quite easy on that score,” said Baisemeaux, smiling: “ bu 
I have ‘already given you two receipts.” 

“Which I now destroy,” said Aramis ; and, after having shown the tw 
receipts to Baisemeaux, he destroyed them. Overcome by so great | 
mark of confidence, Baisemeaux unhesitatingly wrote out an acknowledge 
ment of a debt of 150,000 francs, payable at the pleasure of the prelate 
Aramis, who had, by glancing over the governor’s shoulder, followed th 


uu 


THE SECOND FLOOR OF LA BERTAUDIERE. 461 


pen as he wrote, put the acknowledgment into his pocket without seeming 
to have read it, which made Baisemeaux perfectly easy, “ Now,” said 


Aramis, “you will not be angry with me if I were to carry off one of your 
prisoners ?” 


“What do you mean ?” 

“In obtaining his pardon, of course. Have I not already told you that 
I took a great interest in poor Seldon ?” 

“Yes, quite true, you did so,”——_“ Wel] »” 

“That is your affair ; do as you think proper. I see you have an open 
hand, and an arm that can reach a great way.” 


“ Adieu, adieu.” And Aramis left, carrying with him the governor’s 
blessings, 


a 


CHAPTER: CI. 
THE TWO FRIENDS, 


At the moment the servants announced Madame Vanel to Madame 
lli¢re, the latter was engaged, or rather was absorbed, in reading a 
, which she hurriedly concealed. She had hardly finished her 
ing toilette, her woman being still in the next room. At the name 
the footsteps of Marguerite Vanel, Madame de Bellidre ran to meet 
She fancied she could detect in her friend’s eye a brightness which 
S neither that of health nor of pleasure. Marguerite embraced her, 
essed her hands, and hardly allowed her time to speak, “ Dearest,” 
he said, “are you forgetting me? Have you quite given yourself up to 
1e pleasures of the court ?” 

“I have not even seen the marriage fétes,” 

‘What are you doing with yourself, then ?” 

“I am getting ready to leave for Belliére.” 

“For Belliére ?” oY 65,” 

“You are becoming rustic in your tastes, then; I delight to see you 
) disposed. But you are pale.” —“ No, I am perfectly well.” 

“So much the better ; I was becoming uneasy about you. You do not 
10w what I have been told.” 

“ People say so many things.” ——“ Yes, but this is very singular.” 

“ How well you know how to excite curiosity, Marguerite.” - 

“Well, I was afraid of vexing you.” 

“ Never; you have yourself always admired me for my evenness of 
mper.” 

"4 Well, then, it is said that—no, I shall never be able to tell you.” 

“Do not let us talk about it, then,” said Madame de Belliére, who de- 
ted the ill-nature which was concealed by all these prefaces, yet felt the 
Ist anxious curiosity on the subject. 

“Well, then, my dear marquise, it is said that, for some time past, you 
longer continue to regret Monsieur de Belliére as you used to do.” 
“It is an ill-natured report, Marguerite. I do regret, and shall always 
ret, my husband ; but it is now two years since he died. [| 
snty-eight years old, and my grief at his loss ought not always to 
itrol every action and thought of my life. You, Marguerite, who are the 
del of a wife, would not believe me if | were to say so,” 


462 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“Why not? Your heart is so soft and yielding,” she said, spitefully. 

“Yours is so too, Marguerite, and yet I did not perceive that you 
allowed yourself to be overcome by grief when your heart was wounded.” 
These words were in direct allusion to Marguerite’s rupture with the 
surintendant, and were also a veiled but direct reproach made against hei 
friend’s heart. ; : 

As if she only awaited this signal to discharge her shaft, Marguerite 
exclaimed, “Well, Eliza, it is said you are in lcve.” And she lookec 
fixedly at Madame de Belli¢re, who blushed without being able to pre. 
vent it. 

“Women never escape slander,” replied the marquise, after a moment’s 
pause. “No one slanders you, Eliza.” 

“What !—people say that I am in love, and yet they do not slander me 
_ “Tn the first place, if it be true, there is no slander, but simply a scandal 
loving report. In the next place—for you did not allow me to finish wha 
I was saying,—the public does not assert that you have abandoned your. 
self to this passion. It represents you, on the contrary, as a virtuous bu 
loving woman, defending herself with claws and teeth, shutting yoursel 
up in your own house as in a fortress, in other respects as impenetrable a: 
that of Danaé, notwithstanding Danaé’s tower was made of brass.” 

“You are witty, Marguerite,” said Madame de Bellitre, tremblin 

“You always flatter me, Eliza. To be brief, however, you are rep 
to be incorruptible and unapproachable. You can decide whether p 
caluminate you or not ;—but what is it you are musing about while 
speaking to you ??>—-—“ I ?” 

“Yes ; you are blushing and are quite silent.” 

“TI was trying,” said the marquise, raising her beautiful eyes, brighten 
with an indication of approaching anger, “I was trying to discover t 
what you could possibly have alluded, you who are so learned in mytho 
logical subjects, in comparing me to Danaé.” 

“You were trying to guess that,” said Marguerite, laughing. 

“Yes ; do you not remember that at the convent, when we were solving 
our problems in arithmetic—ah! what I have to tell you is learned also 
but it is my turn—do you not remember, that if one of the terms were 
given, we were to find out the other? Therefore do you guess now?” 

““T cannot conjecture what you mean.” 

“And yet nothing is more simple.” 

“You pretend that I am in love, do you not ?”»——“ So it is said.” 

“Very well ; it is not said, I suppose, that I am in love with an abstrac 
tion. There must surely be a name mentioned in this report.” 

“Certainly, a name is mentioned.” 

“Very well; it is not surprising, then, that I should try to guess thi: 
name, since you do not tell it me.” 

‘““My dear marquise, when I saw you blush, I did not think you wouk 
have to spend much time in conjectures.” 

“It was the word Danaé which you used that surprised me. Danai 
means a shower of gold, does it not ?” 

“That is to say that the Jupiter of Danaé changed himself into a showe 
of gold for her.” 

“My lover, then, he whom you assign me——” 

“IT beg your pardon ; I am your friend, and assign you no one.” 

“That may be ; but those who are evilly disposed towards me.” 

“Do you wish to hear the name ?” 

“I have been waiting this half-hour for it.” 


THE TWO FRIENDS. 463 


‘Well, then, you shall hear it. Do not be shocked; he is a man high 


yower.” 
Good,” said the marquise, as she clenched her hands like a patient at 


approach of the knife. | 
‘He is a very wealthy man,” continued Marguerite ; “the wealthiest, it 
y be. Ina word, it is——” 

[he marquise closed her eyes for a moment. 
‘It is the Duke of Buckingham,” said Marguerite, bursting into laughter. 
e perfidiousness had been calculated with extreme ability ; the name 
t was pronounced, instead of the name which the marquise awaited, 
1 precisely the same effect upon her as the badly-sharpened axes, which 
1 hacked, without destroying, Messicurs de Chalais and De Thou on 
ir scaffolds, had upon them. She recovered herself, however, and said, 
was perfectly right in saying you were a witty woman, for you are 
iking the time pass away most agreeably. The joke is a most amusing 
e, for I have never seen the Duke of Buckingham.” 
“Never!” said Marguerite, restraining her laughter. 
“] have never even left my own house since the duke has been at Paris.” 
“Oh!” resumed Madame Vanel, stretching out her foot towards a 
per which was lying on the carpet near the window ; “it is not neces- 
ry for people to see each other, since they can write.” The marquise 
ambled, for this paper was the envelope of the letter she was reading as 
r friend had entered, and was sealed with the surintendant’s arms. As 
e leaned back on the sofa on which che was sitting, Madame de Belliére 
vered the paper with the thick folds of her large silk dress, and so con- 
aled it. “Come, Marguerite, tell me, is it to tell me all these foolish 
ports that you have come to see me 50 early in the day?” 
“No; I came to see you in the first place, and to remind you of those 
‘bits of our earlier days, so delightful to remember, when we used to 
ander about together at Vincennes, and, sitting beneath an oak, or in 
me sylvan shade, used to talk of those we loved, and who Joved us.” 
“Do you propose that we should go out together now r? 
“My carriage is here, and I have three hours at my disposal.” 
“T am not dressed yet, Marguerite ; but if you wish that we should talk 
gether, we can, without going to the woods of Vincennes, find in my own 
irden here, beautiful trees, shady groves, a green sward covered with 
lisies and violets, the perfume of which can be perceived from where we 
-e sitting.” 
“T regret your refusal, my dear marquise, for I wanted to 
hole heart into yours.” 
“T repeat again, Marguerite, my heart is yours just as much in this 
yom, Or beneath the lime-trees in the garden here, as it is under the oaks 
1 the wood yonder.” 
“Itis not the same thing for me. In approaching nearer to Vincennes, 
arquise, my ardent aspirations approach nearer to that object towards 
shich they have for some days past been directed.” The marquise sud- 
enly raised her head. “ Are you surprised, then, that I am still thinking 
£ St. Mandé ?” 

“Of St. Mandé !” exclaimed Madame de Belligre ; and the looks of both 
yomen met each other like two swords restless at the first time their 
ilades were crossed. 

“ You, so proud too !” said the marquise, disdainfully. 

“J so proud !” replied Madame Vanel. “Suchis mynature. I do not 
orgive neglect ; 1 cannot endure infidelity. When I leave any one who 


pour out my 


n 
( 


464 THE VICOMTE DE BRA GELONNE. 


weeps at my abandonment, I feel induced still to love him; but when 
others forsake me, and laugh at their infidelity, I love distractedly. y 

Madame de Belligre could not restrain an inveluntary movement. 

“She is Jealous, ”said Marguerite to herself. ‘ Then,” continued the 
marquise, “ you are quite enamoured of the Duke of Buckingham—I mean 
of M. Fouquet ?” Eliza felt the allusion, and all her blood seemed to have’ 
flowed towards her heart. “And you wished to go to Vincennes—to St. 
Mandé even ?” 

“J hardly know what I wished ; you would have advised me perhaps.” 

“In what respect?” You have often done so.” 

“‘ Most certainly I should not have done so in the present instance, for 
I do not forgive as you do. I am less loving, perhaps; but when my heart, 
has been once wounded, it remains so always.” 

“But M. Fouquet has not wounded you,” said Marguerite Vanel, with 
the most perfect simplicity. 

3 You perfectly understand what I mean. M. Fouquet has not wounded 

; I do not know him either from any obligation or any injury received 
at re hands; but you have reason to complain of him ; you are my friend, 
and I am afraid I should not advise you as you would like.” { 


“Ah, you are prejudging the case.’ 

“The sighs you spoke of just now are more than indications.” 

“You overwhelm me,” said the young woman suddenly, as if collecting 
her whole strength, like a wrestler preparing for a last struggle ; “you 
take only my evil dispositions and my weaknesses into calculation, and do 
not speak of the pure and generous feelings which I have. If, at this! 
moment, I feel instinctively attracted towards the surintendant, if I even 
make an advance to him, and which, I confess, is very probable, my 
motive for it is, that M. Fouquet’s fate deeply affects me, and because he 
is, In my opinion, one of the most unfortunate men living.” 

“Ah,” said the marquise, placing her hand upon her heart, “ Seine 
new, then, has occurred.” 

“Do you not know it ?” 

“JT am utterly ignorant of everything about him,” said Madame de Bel- 
liére, with that palpitation of anguish which suspends thought and speech, 
and even life itself. 

“In the first place, then, the king’s favour is entirely withdrawn from 
M. Fouquet, and conferred on M. Colbert.” 

Out 1S. Stated,” 

“It is very clear, since the discovery of the plot at Belle-Isle.” 

“I was told that the discovery of the fortifications there had turned out 
to M. Fouquet’s honour.” 

Marguerite began to laugh in so cruel a manner, that Madame de Bel- 
liére could at that moment have delightedly plunged a dagger in her 
bosom. ‘ Dearest,” continued Marguerite, “there is no longer any ques- 
tion of M. Fouquet’s honour ; his safety is concerned. Before three days 
are past the ruin of the surintendant will be complete.” 

“Stay,” said the marquise, in her turn smiling, “that is going a little 
too fast.” . 

“T said three days, because I wish to deceive myself with a hope ; but 
most certainly the catastrophe will not extend beyond twenty-four hours.” 

(74 Why so! p? 

“For the simplest of all reasons—that M. Fouquet has no more money.’ 

“In matters of finance, my dear Marguerite, some are without money 
to-day, who to-morrow can procure millions.” 


THE TWO FRIENDS. 465 


“That might be M. Fouquet’s case when he had two wealthy and clever 
friends who amassed money for him, and wrung it from every source ; but 
these friends are dead.” 

“* Money does not die, Marguerite—it may be concealed ; but it can be 
looked for, bought, and found.” 

“You see things on the bright side, and so much the better for you. It 
is really very unfortunate that you are not the Egeria of M. Fouquet ; you 
might show him the source whence he could obtain the millions which the 
king asked him for yesterday.” 
| Millions !” said the marquise, in terror. 

“ Four—an even number.” 

“Infamous !” murmured Madame de Belliére, tortured by her friend’s 
merciless delight. 

“M. Fouquet, I should think, must certainly have four millions,” she 
ceplied, courageously. 

“If he has those which the king requires to-day,” said Marguerite, “he 

ill not, perhaps, possess those which the king will require in a month.” 

“The king will require money from him again then ?” 

\ “No doubt ; and that is my reason for saying that the ruin of this poor 
yi. Fouydet is inevitable. Pride will induce him to furnish the money, 
ind when he has no more he will fall.” 

“Tt is true,” said the marquise, tremblingly, “the plan is a bold one; 
out tell me, does M. Colbert hate M. Fouquet so very much ?” 

“T think he does not like him. M. Colbert is powerful ; he improves on 
close acquaintance ; he has gigantic ideas, a strong will, and discretion ; 
ne will make great strides.” 

+ “He will be surintendant ?” 
| “It is probable. Such is the reason, my dear marquise, why I felt my- 
‘elf impressed in favour of that poor man, who once loved—nay, even 
{dored me ; and why, when I see him so unfortunate, I forgive his infi- 
lelity, which I have reason to believe he also regrets ; and why, moreover, 
f should not have been disinclined to afford him some consolation, or some 
good advice ; he would have understood the step I had taken, and would 
have thought kindly of me for it. It is gratifying to be loved, you 
| i Men value love highly when they are no longer blinded by its in- 
luence. 
| The marquise, bewildered, and overcome by these cruel attacks, which 
kad been calculated with the greatest correctness and precision of aim, 
,ardly knew what answer to return; she even seemed to have lost all 
tower of thought. Her perfidious friend’s voice had assumed the most 
tffectionate tone ; she spoke as a woman, but concealed the instincts ofa 
yanther. “ Well,” said Madame de Belliére, who had a vague hope that 
Marguerite would cease to overwhelm a vanquished enemy, “ why do you 
ot go and see M. Fouquet ?” 
' “ Decidedly, marquise, you have made me reflect. No, it would be un- 
»ecoming for me to make the first advance. M. Fouquet no doubt loves 
ne, but he is too proud. I cannot expose myself to an affront... . 
vesides, I have my husband to consider. You say nothing to me. Very 
well, I shall consult M. Colbert on the subject.” Marguerite rose smilingly, 
is though to take leave, but the marquise had not the strength to imitate 
er. Marguerite advanced a few paces, in order that she might continue 
‘0 enjoy the humiliating grief in which her rival was plunged, and then 
said, suddenly, “ You do not accompany me to the door, then?” The 
Marquise rose, pale and. almost lifeless, without thinking of the envelope, 
30 


Ne 1 


fi 


466 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


which had occupied her attention so greatly at the commencement of th 
conversation, and which was revealed at the first step she took. She the 
opened the door of her oratory, and without even turning her head tc 
wards Marguerite Vanel, entered it, closing the door after her. Ma 
guerite said, or rather muttered, afew words, which Madame de Bellier 
did not even hear. As soon, however, as the marquise had disappearec 
her envious enemy, not being able to resist the desire to satisfy herse 
that her suspicions were really founded, advanced stealthily towards _ 
like a panther, and seized the envelope. “Ah!” she said, gnashing he 
teeth, “it was indeed a letter from M. Fouquet she was reading when | 
arrived,” and then darted out of the room. During this interval, the mal 
quise, having arrived behind the rampart, as it were, of her door, fe 
that her strength was failing her; for a moment she remained rigid, pal 
and motionless as a statue ; and then, like a statue shaken on its base b 
4 storm of wind, she tottered and fell inanimate on the carpet. The nois 
of the fall resounded at the same moment as the rolling of Marguerite 
carriage leaving the hotel was heard. 


e 


CHAPTER CII. > 
MADAME DE BELLIERE’S PLATE. 


Tuk blow had been the more painful on account of its being unexpecte) 
It was some time before the marquise recovered herself ; but, once r 
covered, she began to reflect upon the events which had been announced t 
her. She therefore returned, at the risk even of losing her life in that wa; 
to that train of ideas which her relentless friend had forced her to pursu 
Treason, then—dark menaces concealed under the semblance of publi 
interest-—such were Colbert’s manoeuvres. A detestable delight at a 
approaching downfall, untiring efforts to attain this object, means of se 
duction no less wicked than the crime itself—such were the means whic 
Marguerite employed. The crooked atoms of Descartes triumphed ; t 
the man without compassion was united a woman without a heart. Th 
marquise perceived, with sorrow rather than with indignation, that th 
king was an accomplice in a plot which betrayed the duplicity of Loui 
XIil., in his advanced age, and the avarice of Mazarin, at a period ¢ 
life when he had not had the opportunity of gorging himself with Frenc 
gold. The spirit of this courageous woman soon resumed its energy, an 
was no longer interrupted by a mere indulgence in compassionate lame 
tations. ‘The marquise was not one to weep when action was necessar 
nor to waste time in bewailing a misfortune when means still existed 
relieving it. For some minutes she buried her face in her icy hands, a 
then, raising her head, rang for her attendants with a steady hand, a 
with a gesture betraying a fixed determination of purpose. Her resoluti 
was taken. 

“Is everything prepared for my departure ?” she inquired of one of h 
female attendants who entered. 

“Ves, madame ; but it was not expected that your ladyship would lea 
for Bellitre for the next few days.” 

“ All my jewels and articles of value then, are locked up ?” 

“Yes madame ; buthitherto we have been in the habit of leaving th 
in Paris. Your ladyship does not generally take your jewels with you 1 
the country.” F 

“But they are all in order, you say 2” 


MADAME DE BELLIERE'S PLATE. 467 


‘Yes, in your ladyship’s own room.” 

The gold plate ?’——“‘ In the chest.” 

‘And the silver plate ?’—“ In the large oaken closet.” 

he marquise remained silent for a few moments, and then said calmly, 
etmy goldsmith be sent for.” 

der attendants quitted the room, to execute the order. The marquise, 
vever, had entered her own room, and inspected her casket of jewels 
h the greatest attention. Never, until now, had she bestowed so much 
sntion upon riches, in which women take so much pride ; never, until 
v, had she looked at her jewels, except for the purpose of making a 
ection according to the settings or their colours. On this occasion, 
wever, she admired the size of the rubies and the brilliancy of the dia- 
mds ; she grieved over every blemish and every defect ; she thought 
: gold light and the stones wretched. The goldsmith, as he entered, 
ind her thus occupied. ‘ M. Faucheux,” she said, “I believe you sup- 
ed me with my gold service ?” 

‘I did, your ladyship.” 

“1 do not now remember the amount of the account.” 

“ Of the new service, madame, or of that which M. de Belliére presented 
ud on your marriage? for I furnished both.” 

“ First of all, the new one ?” 

“The covers, the goblets, and the dishes, with their covers, the eaz- 
srgne, the ice-pails, the dishes for the preserves, and the tea and coffee 
ns, cost your ladyship sixty thousand francs.” 

“No more ?” 

“ Your ladyship thought the account very high.” 

“Yes, yes ; I remember, in fact, that it was dear ; but it was the work- 
anship, I suppose ?” 

“Ves, madame ; the designs, the chasings, and new patterns.” 

“What proportion of the cost does the workmanship form ¢ Do not 
sitate to tell me.”--——“ A third of its value, madame.” 

“There is the other service, the old one, that which belonged to my 
isband ?” 

“Yes, madame ; there is less workmanship in that than in the other. 
s intrinsic value does not exceed thirty thousand francs.” 

“ Thirty thousand,” murmured the marquise, “But M. F aucheux, there 
also the service which belonged to my mother ; all that massive plate 
hich I did not wish to part with, on account of the associations con- 
scted with it.” 

“Ah! madame, that would indeed be an excellent resource for those 
ho, unlike your ladyship, might not be in a position to keep their plate. 
. working that, one worked in solid metal. But that service is no longer 
fashion. Its weight is its only advantage.” 

“ That is all I care about. How much does it weigh ?” 

“Fifty thousand livres at the very least. I do not allude to the enor- 
ous vases for the buffet, which alone weigh five thousand livres, or ten 
ousand the two.” 

“ One hundred and thirty,” murmured the marquise. ‘‘ You are quite 
re of your figures, M, Faucheux ?” 

“ Positive, madame. Besides, there is no difficulty in weighing them.” 
“ The amount is entered in my books.” 

“ Your ladyship is extremely methodical, I am aware.” 

“ Tet us now turn to another subject," said Madame de Bellitre ; and 
e opened one of her jewel- boxes. 


468 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“T recognise these emeralds,” said M. Faucheux ; “for it was I wh 
had the setting of them. They are the most beautiful in the whol 
court. No, I am mistaken ; Madame de Chatillon has the most beautift 
set ; she had them from Messieurs de Guise ; but your set, madame, ar 
next” 

“What are they worth ??——“ Mounted ?” 

“ No; supposing I wished to sell them.” : 

“ T know very well who would buy them,” exclaimed M. Faucheux. 

“ That is the very thing I ask. They could be purchased, then ?” 

“ All your jewels could be bought. It is well known that you posses 
the most beautiful jewels in Paris. You are not changeable in you 
tastes ; when you make a purchase, it is of the very best ; and what yc 
purchase you do not part with.” 

“ What could these emeralds be sold for, then ?” 

“ A hundred and thirty thousand francs.” 

The marquise wrote down upon her tablets the amount which tl 
‘eweller mentioned. “ The ruby necklace ?” she said. 

“ Are they Balass rubies, madame >”____“ Here they are.” ! 

“They are beautiful—magnificent. I did not know that your ladysh 


had these stones.” 

“What is their value ?” 

“Two hundred thousand francs. The centre one is alone worth 
hundred.” : 

“1 thought so,” said the marquise. “ As for diamonds, I have them 
numbers ; rings, necklaces, sprigs, ear-rings, clasps. Tell me their valu 
M. Faucheux.” ; 

The jeweller took his magnifying-glass and _ scales, weighed and 1 
spected them, and then silently made his calculations. “These stone 
he said, ‘““ must have cost your ladyship an income of forty thousand franc 

“You value them at eight hundred thousand francs ?” 

“ Nearly so.” 

“Tt is about what I imagined—but the settings are not included.” 

“ No, madame ; but if I were called upon to sell or to buy, I should 
satisfied with the gold of the settings alone, as my profit upon the trai 
action. 1 should make a good twenty-five thousand francs.” 

“An agreeable sum.” “Very so, madame.” 

“ Will you accept that profit then, on condition of converting the jew 
into money?” | 

“ But you do not intend to sell your diamonds, I suppose, madam 
exclaimed the bewildered jeweller. 

“‘Silence, M. Faucheux, do not disturb yourself about that ; give me 
answer simply. You are an honourable man, with whom my family . 
dealt for thirty years ; you have known my father and mother, wh 
your own father and mother had-served. I address you asa’friend :- 
you accept the gold of the settings in return for a sum of ready money 
be placed in my hands ?” | : 

“Fight hundred thousand francs ! it is enormous.” 

“’T know it.” 

“ Impossible to find.” “ Not so.” 

“But reflect, madame, upon the effect which will be produced by 
sale of your jewels.” 

_“ No one need know it. You can get sets of false jewels made for 

similar to the real. Do not answer a word ; I insist uponit. Sell tl 
separately, sell the stones only.” 


MADAME DE BELLIERE’S PLATE. 469 
+“Tn that way it is easy. Monsieur is looking out for some sets of 
twels as well as single stones, for Madame’s toilette. There will be a 
-pmpetition for them. I can easily dispose of 600,000 francs’ worth to 
Monsieur. I am certain yours are the most beautiful.” 

4 When can you do so ??——“ In less than three days’ time.” 
ul Very well, the remainder you will dispose of among private indi- 
duals. For the present make me outa contract of sale, payment to be 


nade in four days.” 
“JT entreat you to reflect, madame ; for if you force the sale, you will 


se a hundred thousand francs.” ; 
“Tf necessary, I will lose two hundred ; I wish everything to be settled 


‘his evening. Do you accept ?” 
iI do, your ladyship. I will not conceal from you that I shall make 


ufty thousand francs by the transaction.” 

“So much the better. In what way shall I have the money ”” 

“Fither in gold, or in bills of the bank of Lyons, payable at M. 
olbert’s.” 

“J agree,” said the marquise, eagerly ; “return home and bring the 
,em_in question in notes, as soon as possible.” 

u/“ Yes, madame, but for Heaven’s sake—— 
y “Not a word, M. Faucheux. By-the-bye, I was forgetting the silver 
wlate. What is the value of that which I have ?” 

1 “Fifty thousand francs, madame.” 

| “That makes a million,” said the marquise to herself. “ M. Faucheux, 
‘ou will take away with you both the gold and silver plate, I can assign, 
a} a pretext, that I wish it remodelled for patterns more in accordance 
eS my own taste. Melt it dewn, and return me its value in money, at 
ance.” 

ic It shall be done, your ladyship.” 

i< You will be good enough to place the money in a chest, and direct one 


Jf your clerks to accompany the chest, and without my servants seeing 
m ; and direct him also to wait for me in a carriage.” 

“In Madame de Faucheux’s carriage ?” said the jeweller. 

“Tf you will allow it ; and I will call for it at your house.” 

“Certainly, your ladyship.” 

“T will direct some of my servants to convey the plate to your house.” 
yyhe marquise rung. “Let the small van be placed at M. Faucheux’s dis- 
yosal,” she said. The jeweller bowed and left the house, directing that 
oe van should follow him closely, saying aloud that the marquise was 
‘pout to have her plate melted down in order to have other plate manu- 
ayctured of a more modern style. Three hours afterwards she went to M. 
naucheux’s house and received from him eight hundred thousand francs 
ai gold inclosed in a chest, which one of the clerks could hardly carry to- 
aards Madame Faucheux’s carriage—for Madame Faucheux kept her 
ce. As the daughter of a president of accounts, she had brought a 


Ww 


” 


arriage portion of thirty thousand crowns to her husband, who was syndic 
sf the goidsmiths. These thirty thousand crowns had become very fruitful 
luring twenty years. The jeweller, though a millionnaire, Was a modest 
han. He had purchased a venerable carriage, built in 1648, ten years 
| fter the king’s birth. This carriage, or rather house upon wheels, excited 
the admiration of the whole quarter in which he resided ; it was covered 
with allegorical paintings, and clouds scattered over with stars. The mar- 
yuise entered this somewhat extraordinary vehicle, sitting opposite to the 
tlerk, who endeayoured to put his knees out of the way, afraid even of 


| 


470 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


touching the marquise’s dress. It was the clerk, too, who told the coac: 
man, who was very proud of having a marquise to drive, to take the roz 
to St. Mandé. 


ae 


CHAPTER Cia. 
THE DOWRY. 


MONSIEUR FAUCHEUX’S horses were serviceable animais, with thic 
knees, and legs which they had some difficulty in moving. Like the ca 
riage, they belonged to the earlier part of the century. They were not : 
fleet, therefore, as the English horses of M. Fouquet, and consequent 
took two hours to get to St. Mandé. Their progress, it might be sail 


missed them both. She closed the door after them, and waited in the roor, 
alone and barricaded. There was no servant to be seen about the room 
but cverything was prepared as though some invisible genius had diving 
the wishes and desires of the guest who was expected. The fire was laij 
the candles in the candelabra, refreshments upon the table, books scaj 
tered about, fresh-cut flowers in vases. One might almost have declared 
it to be an enchanted house. The marquise lighted the candles, inhale 
the perfume of the flowers, sat down, and was soon plunged in profoun 
thought. Her deep musings, melancholy though they were, were not u 
tinged with a certain sweetness. Spread out before her was a treasure, 
million wrung from her fortune, as a gleaner plucks the blue corn-flow 
from her crown of flowers. She conjured up the sweetest dreams. Hi 
principal thought, and one that took precedence of all others, was to d) 
vise means of leaving this money for M. Fouquet without his possib, 
learning from whom the gift had come. This idea, naturally enough, w) 
the first to present itself to her mind ; but although, on reflection, it a, 
peared difficult to carry out, she did not despair of success. She woul, 
then, ring to summon M. Fouquet, and make her escape, happier 1f, 14 
stead of having given a million, she had herself found one. But bei 
there, and having seen the boudoir so coquettishly decorated that it mig! 
almost be said the least particle of dust had but the moment before bee 
removed by the servants ; having observed the drawing-room so perfect 
arranged that it might almost be said her presence there had driven awa 
the fairies who were its occupants, she asked herself if the glance or ga! 
of those whom she had driven away—-whether spirits, fairies, elves, 
human creatures—had not already recognised her. To secure success, 
was necessary that some steps should be seriously taken; and it we 
necessary, also, that the surintendant should comprehend the serious pos 
tion in which he was placed, in order to yield compliance with the generon 
fancies of awoman, All the fascinations of an eloquent friendship wou. 


THE DOWRY. 471 


: required to persuade him ; and should this be insufficient, the maddening 

fluence of a devoted passion, which, in its resolute determination to carry 
mviction, would not be turned aside. Was not the surintendant, indeed, 
jown for his delicacy and dignity of feeling ? Would he allow himself to 
cept from any woman that of which she had stripped herself? No; he 
ould resist ; and if any voice in the world could overcome his resistance, 
would be the voice of the woman he loved. Another doubt, and that a 
‘uel one, suggested itself to Madame de Bellitre with a sharp, acute pain, 
ke a dagger-thrust. “ Did he really love her? Would that volatile mind, 
1at inconstant heart, be likely to be fixed for a moment, even were it to 
aze upon an angel? Was it not the same with Fouquet, notwithstanding 

is genius and his uprightness of conduct, as with those conquerors on the 

eld of battle who shed tears when they have gained a victory? I must 

sarn if it be so, and must judge of that for myself,” said the marquise. 

“Who can tell whether that heart, so coveted, is not common in its im- 

ylses, and full of alloy? Who can tell if that mind, when the touchstone 

3 applied to it, will not be found of a mean and vulgar character ? Come, 

ome,” she said, “ this is doubting and hesitating too much; to the proof !” 

she looked at the timepiece. “It is now seven o’clock,” she said; “he 
aust have arrived ; it is the hour for signing his papers.” With a feverish 
mpatience she rose and walked towards the mirror, in which she smiled 
vith a resolute smile of devotedness. She touched the spring, and drew 
yut the handle of the bell; then, as if exhausted beforehand by the struggle 
she had just undergone, she threw herself on her knees, in utter abandon- 
nent, before a large couch, in which she buried her face in her trembling 
yands. Ten minutes afterwards she heard the spring of the door sound. 
The door moved upon invisible hinges, and Fouquet appeared. He looked 
sale, and seemed bowed down by the weight of some bitter reflection, He 
jid not hurry, but simply came at the summons. The preoccupation of 
his mind must indeed have been very great, that a man, so devoted to 
pleasure, for whom indeed pleasure was everything, should obey such a 
summons s0 listlessly. The previous night, in fact, fertile in melancholy 
ideas, had sharpened his features, generally so noble in their indifference 
of expression, and had traced dark lines of anxiety around his eyes. 
Handsome and noble he still was, and the melancholy expression of his 
mouth, a rare expression with men, gave a new character to his features, 
y which his youth seemed to be renewed. Dressed in black, the lace in 


ooks of the surintendant, full of dreamy reflection, were fixed upon the 
+hreshold of the room which he had so frequently approached in search of 
fexpected happiness. This gloomy gentleness of manner, this smiling sad- 
mess of expression, which had replaced his former excessive joy, produced 
Jan indescribable effect upon Madame de Bellicre, who was regarding him 
at a distance. A woman’s eye can read the face of the man she loves, its 
every feeling of pride, its every expression of suffering ; it might almost 
be said that Heaven has graciously granted to women, on account of their 
very weakness, more than it has accorded to other creatures. They can 
1 conceal their own feelings from a man, but from them no man can conceal 
lhis. The marquise divined in a single glance the whole weight of the un- 
happiness of the surintendant._ She divined a night passed without sleep, 
a day passed in deceptions. From that moment she was firm in her own” 
strength, and she felt that she loved Fouquet beyond everything else. She 
rose and approached him, saying, “You wrote to me this morning to say 
you were beginning to forget me, and that I, whom you had not seen 


472 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


lately, had no dou‘st ceased to think of you. I have come to undeceive 
you, monsieur, and the more completely so, because there is one thing ] 
can read in your eyes.” 

“What is that, madame ?” said Fouquet, astonished. 

“That you have never loved me so much as at this moment ; in the 
same manner you can read, in my present step towards you, that I have 
not forgotten you.” 

“Oh! madame,” said Fouquet, whose face was for a moment lighted ur 
by a sudden gleam of joy, “you are indeed an angel, and no man car 
suspect you. All he can do is to humble himself before you, and entreat 
forgiveness.” 

“ Your forgiveness is granted, then,” said the marquise. Fouquet was 
about to throw himself upon his knees. ‘“ No, no,” she said ; “sit here, by 
my side. Ah! that is an evil thought which has just crossed your mind.’ 

“ How do you detect it, madame ?” 

“ By a smile which has just injured the expression of your countenance. 
Be candid, and tell me what your thought was—no secrets between friends.” 

“Tell me, then, madame, why have you been so harsh for these three o1 
four months past ?”>—-—“ Harsh ?” Sie 

“Yes ; did you not forbid me to visit you” | 

“Alas !” said Madame de Bellitre, sighing deeply, “because your visit 
to me was the cause of your being visited with a great misfortune ; because 
my house is watched ; because the same eyes which have already seen 
you might see you again ; because I think it less dangerous for you that I 
should come here than that you should come to my house ; and, lastly, 
because I know you to be already unhappy enough not to wish to increase 
your unhappiness further.” 

Fouquet started, for these words recalled all the anxieties connected 
with his office of surintendant,—he who, for the last few minutes, had in- 
dulged in all the wild aspirations of the lover. “I unhappy ?” he said, 
endeavouring to smile ; “indeed, marquise, you will almost make me be- 
lieve that I am so, judging from your own sadness. Are your beautiful 
eyes raised upon me merely in pity ?—I look for another expression from 
them.” ; 

“It is not I who am sad, monsieur ; look in the mirror, there—it is you 
who are so,” 

“It is true I am somewhat pale, marquise; but it is from overwork ; 
the king yesterday required a supply of money from me.” 

“Yes, four millions, I am aware of it.” 

“You know it ?” exclaimed Fouquet, in a tone of surprise ; “how can 
you have learnt it? It was after the departure of the queen, and in the 
presence of one person only, that the king——” | 

“You perceive that I do know it ; is not that sufficient ? Well, go on, 
monsieur, the money the king has required you to supply ——” 

“You understand, marquise, that I have been obliged to procure it, then 
to get it counted, afterwards registered,—altogether a long affair. Since 
Monsieur de Mazarin’s death, financial affairs occasion some little fatigue 
and embarrassment. Myadministration is somewhat over-taxed, and this 
is the reason why I have not slept during the past night.” ! 

“So that you have the amount?” inauired the marquise, with some 
anxiety. : 

“It would indeed be strange, marquise,” replied F ouquet, cheerfully, 
“if a surintendant of finances were not to have a paltry four millions in his 
coffers,” 


THE DOWRY. 473 


“Ves, yes, I believe you either have, or will have, them.” 

“What do you mean by saying | shall have them ?” 

“Tt is not very long since you were required to furnish two millions.” 

“On the contrary, to me it seems almost an age ; but do not let us talk 

of money matters any longer.” 

“On the contrary, we will continue to speak of them, for that is my only 
reason for coming to see you.” 

“IT am at a loss to know your meaning,” said the surintendant, whose 
eyes began to express an anxious curiosity, 

“ Tell me, monsieur, is the office of surintendant an irremovable one ?” 

“You surprise me, marchioness, for you speak as if you had some 
motive or interest in putting the question.” 

‘“‘ My reason is simple enough ; I am desirous of placir g some money in 
your hands, and naturally I wish to know if you are certain of your post.” 

“Really, marquise, I am at a loss what to reply, and I cannot conceive 
your meaning.” 

“Seriously then, dear M. Fouquet, I have certain funds which some- 
what embarrass me. I am tired of investing my money in land, and am 
dnxious to intrust a friend to turn it to account.” 

y “Surely it does not press,” said M. Fouquet. 
? “On the contrary, it is very pressing.” 

“Very well, we will talk of that by-and-by.” 

“ By-and- -by will not do, for my money is there,” returned the marquise, 
ointing out the coffer to the surintendant, and showing him, as she 
pened it, the bundles of notes and heaps of gold. Fouquet, who had 
yisen from his seat at the same moment as Madame de Belliere, remained 
dr a moment plunged in thought; then, suddenly starting back, he 
rned pale, and sank down in his chair, concealing his face in his hands. 
Madame, madame,” he murmured, ‘ ‘what opinion can you have of me 
hen you make me such an offer ?” 

, “Of you !” returned the marquise. “Tell me rather, what you your- 
welf think of the step I have taken.” 
, “You bring me this money for myself, and you bring it because you 
now me to be embarrassed. Nay, do not deny it, for I am sure of it. 
o I not know your heart ?” 
“Tf you know my heart, then, can you not see that it is my heart which 
offer you ?” 
“IT have guessed rightly, then,” exclaimed Fouquet. “ In truth, madame, 
have never yet given you the right to insult me in this manner.” 
“Insult you,” she said, turning pale, “ what singular delicacy of feel- 
You tell me you love me ; in the name of that affection you wished 
e to sacrifice my reputation and my honour, yet, when I offer you money, 
hich is my own, you refuse me.” 
“Madame, you were at liberty to preserve what you term your reputa- 
on and your honour. Permit me to preserve mine. Leave me to my 
uin, leave me to sink beneath the weight of the hatreds which surround 
ine, beneath the faults I have committed, beneath the load even of my 
yemorse ; but, for Heaven’s sake, madame, do not overwhelm me under 

“his last infliction.” 

“A short while since, M. Fouquet, you were wanting in judgment, now 

ou are wanting in feeling, ‘ 

) Fouquet pressed his clenched hand upon his breast, heaving with 
emotion, saying, ‘‘ Overwhelm me, madame, for I haye nothing to “reply.” 
 *T offered you my friendship, M, Fouquet,” 


r 
\ 
| 


| 


| 


j 


we 


ae 


474 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“Yes, madame, and you limited yourself to that.” 

“ And what I am now doing is the act of a friend.” 

“No doubt it is.” Be: " as i 

“And you reject this mark of my friendship ? eS Teer it” | 

“ Monsieur Fouquet, look at me,” said the marquise, with glistening 
eyes, “ I now offer you my love.” | 

“Oh! madame,” exclaimed Fouquet. 

“ T have loved you for a Jong while past : women, like men, have a false 
delicacy at times. For a long time past I have loved you, but would not 
confess it. Well, then, you have implored this love on your knees, and | 
have refused you ; I was blind, as you were a little while since ; but as i 
was my love that you sought, it is my love that I now offer you.” _ 

“ Oh ! madame, you overwhelm me beneath the weight of my happiness.’ 

Will you be happy, then, if I am yours—yours entirely ?” | 

“Tt will be the supremest happiness for me.” _ ’ Sas 

“ Take me, then. If, however, for your sake I sacrifice a prejudice, dc 
you for mine, sacrifice a scruple.” 

“ Do not tempt me.” “Do not refuse me.” 

“ Think seriously of what you are proposing.” PerRiad asthed 

“ Fouquet, but one word. Let it be No, and I open this door,” and sh 
pointed to the door which led into the street, “and you will never see m« 
again. Let that word be Yes, and I am yours entirely.” 

“Elise! Elise! But this coffer?” “Tt contains my dowry.” 

‘Tt is your ruin,” exclaimed Fouquet, turning over the gold and papers 
“there must be a million here.” 

“Yes, my jewels, for which I care no longer if you do not love me, an 
for which, equally, I care no longer if you love me as I love you.” 

“This is too much,” exclaimed Fouquet, “I yield, I yield, even wer 
it only to consecrate so much devotion. I accept the dowry.” 

“‘ And take the woman with it,” said the marquise, throwing herself int 
his arms. 


———_. 


CHAPTER CIV, 
LE TERRAIN DE DIEU. 


DURING the progress of these events, Buckingham and De Warde 
travelled in excellent companionship, and made the journey from Pari 
to Calais in undisturbed harmony together. Buckingham had hurried hi 
departure, so that the best part of his adiewx were very hastily mad 
His visit to Monsieur and Madame, to the young queen, and to the quee 
dowager, had been paid collectively—a precaution on the part of th 
queen-mother, which saved him the distress of any private conversatio 
with Monsieur, and saved him also from the danger of seeing Madam 
again. The carriages containing the luggage had already been sent o 
beforehand, and in the evening he set off in his travelling carriage wit 
his attendants. | 
De Wardes, irritated at finding himself dragged away, in so abrupt ¢ 
manner, by this Englishman, had sought in his subtle mind for some 
means of escaping from his fetters ; but no one having renderéd him any 
assistance in this respect, he was absolutely obliged, therefore, to submit 
to the burden of his own evil thoughts, and of his own caustic spirit. — 
Such of his friends in whom he had been able to confide, had, in their 
character of wits, rallied him upon the duke’s superiority. Others, less 


| 


LE TERRAIN DE DIEU. 475 


ant, but more sensible, had reminded him of the king’s orders, which 

ibited duelling. Others, again, and they the larger number, who 

_ Christian charity, or national vanity, might have rendered him 

stance, did not care to run the risk of incurring disgrace, and would, 

1e best, have informed the ministers of a departure which might end 
massacre on a small scale. The result was, that, after having fully 

yerated upon the matter, De Wardes packed up his luggage, took a 

jle of horses, and followed only by one servant, made his way to- 

ds the barrier, where Buckingham’s carriage was to await him. 

he duke received his adversary as he would have done an intimate 

uaintance, made room beside him on the same seat with himself, 

red him refreshments, and spread over his knees the sable cloak which 
been thrown upon the front seat. They then conversed of the court, 
rout alluding to Madame ; of Monsieur, without speaking of domestic 
irs ; of the king, without speaking of his brother’s wife ; of the queen- 
ther, without alluding to her daughter-in-law ; of the king of England, 
hout alluding to his sister-in-law ; of the state of the affections of 

.er of the travellers, without pronouncing any name that might be dan- 
ous. In this way the journey, which was performed by short stages, 
; most agreeable, and Buckingham, almost a Frenchman, from his wit 
| his education, was delighted at having so admirably selected his 
velling companion. Elegant repasts were served, of which they partook 
lightly ; trials of horses ‘n the beautiful meadows which skirted the 
d; coursing, for Buckingham had his greyhounds with him ; and in 
+h and other various ways did they pass away the time. The duke 
newhat resembled the beautiful river Seine, which incloses France a 
yusand times in its loving embraces, before deciding upon joining its 
ters with the ocean. In quitting France, it was her recently adopted 
ughter he had brought to Paris, whom he chiefly regretted ; his every 
yught was a remembrance of her, and, consequently, a regret. There- 
e, whenever, now and then, despite his command over himself, he was 
+ in thought, De Wardes left him entirely to his musings. This deli- 
cy might have touched Buckingham, and changed his feelings towards 
> Wardes, if the latter, whilst preserving silence, had shown a glance 
ss full of malice, and a smile less false. Instinctive dislikes, however, 
e relentless ; nothing appeases them; a few ashes may, sometimes, 
parently extinguish them ; but, beneath those ashes, the smothered 
mes rage more furiously. Having exhausted all the means of amuse- 
ent which the route offered, they arrived, as we have said, at Calais, to- 
ards the end of the sixth day. ‘The duke’s attendants had already, since 
e previous evening, been in advance, and had chartered a boat, for the 
irpose of joining the yacht, which had been tacking about in sight, or 
sre broadside on, whenever it felt its white wings wearied, within two or 
ree cannon-shots from the jetty. 

The boat was destined for the transport of the duke’s equipages, from 
ie shore to the yacht. The horses had been embarked, having been 
oisted from the boat upon the deck in baskets, expressly made for the 
urpose, and wadded in such a manner that their limbs, even in the most 
‘olent fits of terror or impatience, were always protected by the soft 
upport which the sides afforded, and their coats were not even turned. 
sight of these baskets, placed side by side, filled the ship’s hold. It 1s 
vell known that, in short voyages, horses refuse to eat, but remain tremb- 
ing all the while, with the best of food before them, such as they would 
lave greatly coveted on land. By degrees, the duke’s entire equipage was 


Apa THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


transported on board the yacht ; he was then informed that everything was 
in readiness, and that they only waited for him, whenever he would be dis- 
posed to embark with the French gentleman. For no one could possibly 
imagine that the French gentleman would have any other accounts to settle 
with his grace than those of friendship. Buckingham desired the captain 
:0 be told to hold himself in readiness, but that, as the sea was beautiful, 
and as the day promised a splendid sunset, he did not intend to go on 
board until nightfall, and would avail himself of the evening to enjoy a 
walk on the strand. He added also, that, finding himself in such excel- 
lent company, he had not the least desire to hasten his embarkation. 

As he said this, he pointed out to those who surrounded him the magni- 
ficent spectacle which the sky presented, of a deep purple colour in the 
horizon, and an amphitheatre of fleecy clouds ascending from the sun’s 
disc to the zenith, assuming the appearance of a range of mountains, whose 
summits were heaped one upon another. The whole amphitheatre was 
tinged at its base by a kind of blood-like foam, fading away into opal and 
pearl-like tints, in proportion as the gaze was carried from the base to the 
summit. The sea, too, was tinged with the same reflection, and, upon the 
crest of every azure wave, danced a point of light, like a ruby exposed to 
the reflection of alamp. The mildness of the evening, the sea-breezes, so 
dear to contemplative minds, a stiff breeze setting in from the east and 
blowing in harmonious gusts ; then, in the distance, the black outline of 
the yacht with its rigging traced upon the empurpled background of the 
sky—while, dotting the horizon, might be seen, here and there, vessels 
with their trimmed sails, like the wings of a sea-gull about to plunge. The 
spectacle, indeed, well merited admiration. A crowd of curious idlers 
followed the richly dressed attendants, amongst whom they mistook the 
intendant and the secretary, for the master and his friend. As for Buck- 
ingham, who dressed very simply, in a grey satin vest, and doublet of 


violet-coloured velvet, wearing his hat thrust over his eyes, and without | 


orders or embroidery, he was taken no more notice of than De Wardes, 
who was dressed in black like an attorney. 

The duke’s attendants had received directions to have a boat in readi- 
ness at the jetty-head, and to watch the embarkation of their master, with- 
out approaching him until either he or his friend should summon them. 


“Whatever may happen,” he had added, laying a stress upon these words, | 
so that they might not be misunderstood. Having walked a few paces | 


upon the strand, Buckingham said to De Wardes, “I think it is now time 
to take leave of each other. The tide, you perceive, is rising; ten minutes 
hence it will have soaked the sands where we are now walking in such a 
manner that we shall not be able to keep our footing.” 

“T await your orders, my lord, but——” 

“But, you mean, we are still upon soil which is part of the king’s terri- 
tory.” ——“ Exactly.” 

“Well, do you see yonder a kind of little island surrounded by a circular 
pool of water? the pool is increasing every minute, and the isle is gradu- 
ally disappearing. This island, indeed, belongs to heaven, for it is situated 
between two seas, and is not shown on the king’s maps. Do you observe it?” 

“Yes; but we can hardly reach it now, without getting our feet wet.” 

“Ves ; but observe that it forms an eminence tolerably high, and that 
the tide rises on every side, leaving the top free. We shall be admirably 
placed upon that little theatre. What do you think of it?” 

“I shall be perfectly happy wherever ] may have the honour of crossing 
my sword with your lordship’s,” 


LE TERRAIN DE DIEU. 477 


“Very well, then, I am distressed to be the cause of your wetting your 
feet, M. de Wardes, but it is most essential you should be able to say to 
the king, ‘Sire, I did not fight upon your majesty’s territory.’ Perhaps the 
distinction is somewhat subtle, but, since Port-Royal, you abound in subtle- 

‘ties of expression. Do not let us complain of this, however, for it makes 
your wit very brilliant, and of a style peculiarly your own. If you do not 
object, we will hurry ourselves, for the sea, I perceive, is rising fast, and 
night Is setting in.” . 

‘““My reason or not walking faster was, that I did not wish to precede 
your grace. Are youstill dry -and, 11y lord?” 

“Yes, . present 1am. Look yonde my servants are afraid we should 
be drowned, and have conv~~ted the boat into a -ruiscr. Do ‘ou remark 
how curiou ly it dances pon che crests of the waves? But, as it makes 
me feel sea-sick, would ,ou permit me to turn my back towards them 2” 

“You will vbserve, my lord, that in turning your back to them, you will 
have the sun full in your face.’ 

“Oh, its rays are very feeble at this hour, and it will soon disappear. 
(Do not be uneasy at that.” 

__“ As vou please, my lord. It was out of consideration for your lordship 
that I made the remark.” 

“T am aware of that, M. de Wardes, and IJ fully appreciate your kind- 
ness. Shall we take off our doublets ?” 

** As you please, my lord.” 

“To not hesitate to tell me, M. de Wardes, if you do not feel comfort- 
able upon the wet sand, or if you think yourself a little too close to’ the 
French territory. We could fight in England, or else upon my yacht.” 

“ We are exceedingly well placed here, my lord : only I have the honour 
to remark that, as the sea is rising fast, we have hardly time z 

Buckingham made a sign of assent, too!’ off his doublet, and threw it on 
the ground—a proceeding which De Wardes imitated. Both their bodies, 
which seemed like two phantoms to those who were looking at them from 
the shore, were thrown strongly into relief by a dark-red, violet-coloured 
shadow with which the sky became overspread. 

“Upon my word, your grace,” said De Wardes, “ we shall hardly have 
ae S begin. Do you not perceive how our feet are sinking into the 
sand ?” 

“T have sunk up to the ankles,” said Buckingham, “ without reckoning 
that the water even is now breaking in upon us.” 

“Tt has already reached me. As soon as you please, therefore, your 
grace,” said De Wardes, who drew his sword—a movement imitated by 
the duke. 

“MM. de Wardes,” said Buckingham, “ one final word. I am about to 
fight you because I do not like you—because you have wounded me in 
ridiculing a certain devotional regard I have entertained, and one which 
I acknowledge that, at this moment, I still retain, and for which I would 
very willingly die. You are a bad and heartless man, M. de Wardes, and 
I will do my utmost to take your life ; for I feel assured that, if you sur- 
vive this engagement, you will, in the future, work great mischief towards 
my friends. That is all I have to remark, M, de Wardes,” continued 
Buckingham, as he saluted him. 

“ And I, my lord, have only this to reply to you: I have not disliked 
you hitherto, but since you have divined my character I hate you, and will 
do all I possibly can to kill you ;’ and De Wardes saluted Buckingham. 

Their swords crossed at the same moment, like two flashes of lightning 


— —~ ee — 2 = - ——— 


478 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


in a dark night. The swords seemed to seek each other, guessed theii 
position, and met. Both were practised swordsmen, and the earlier passes 
were without any result. The night was tast closing in, and it was so dark 
that they attacked and defended themselves almost instinctively. Sud. 
denly De Wardes felt his sword arrested—he had just touched Bucking: 
ham’s shoulder. The duke’s sword sunk, as his arm was lowered, 

“You are touched, my lord,’ said De Wardes, drawing back a step ot 
two. 

“ Yes, monsieur, but only slightly.” “Yet you quitted your guard.” 

“ Only from the first effect of the cold steel, but I have recovered. Let 
us go on, if you please.” And disengaging his sword with a sinister clash- 
ing of the blade, the duke wounded the marquis in the breast. 

“Touched also,” he said. 

“No,” said De Wardes, not moving from his place. 

‘“‘T beg your pardon, but, observing that your shirt was stained——7 
said Buckingham. 

“Well,” said De Wardes, furiously, “it is now your turn.” 

And, with a terrible lunge, he pierced Buckingham’s arm through, the 
sword passing between the two bones. Buckingham, feeling his right arm 
paralysed, stretched out his left arm, seized his sword, which was about 
falling from his nerveless grasp, and before De Wardes could resume his 
guard, he thrust him through the breast. De Wardes tottered, his. knees 
gave way beneath him, and, leaving his sword still fixed in the duke’s arm, 
he fell into the water, which was soon crimsoned with a more genuine re- 
flection than that which it had assumed from the clouds. De Wardes was 
not dead ; he felt the terrible danger which menaced him, for the sea rose 
fast. ‘The duke, too, perceived the danger also. With an effort, and an 
exclamation of pain, he tore out the blade which remained in his arm, and, 
turning towards De Wardes, said, “ Are you dead, marquis ?” 

“No,” replied De Wardes, in a voice choked by the blood which rushed 
from his lungs to his throat, “ but very near it.” 

‘Well, what is to be done? Can you walk?” said Buckingham, sup- 
porting him on his knee. 

Impossible,” he replied ; then falling down again, said, “Call to your 
people, or I shall be drowned.” 

“Hallo! boat there ! quick, quick !” 

The boat flew over the waves, but the sea rose faster than the boat could 
approach. Buckingham saw that De Wardes was on the point of being 
again covered by a wave ; he passed his left arm, safe and unwounded, 
round his body, and raised him up. The wave ascended to his middle, 
but could not move him. The duke immediately began to walk towards 
the shore. He had hardly gone ten paces, when a second wave, rushing on- 
wards, higher, more furious, more menacing than the former, struck him 
at the height of his chest, threw him over, and buried him beneath the 
water. At the reflux, however, the duke and De Wardes were discovered 
lying on the strand. De Wardes had fainted. At this moment four of 
the: duke’s sailors, who comprehended the danger, threw themselves into 
the sea, and ina moment were close beside him. Their terror was ex- 
treme when they observed how their master became covered with blood 
in proportion as the water, with which it was impregnated, flowed towards 
his knees and feet. They wished to carry him away. 

“ No, no,” exclaimed the duke ; “ take the marquis on shore first.” 

Death to the Frenchman !” cried the English, sullenly. 

“Wretched knaves !” exclaimed the duke, drawing himself up with a 


ZE TERRAIN DE DIEU 479 


aughty gesture, which sprinkled them with blood, “obey directly. M. 
: Wardes on shore! M. de Wardes’ safety to be looked to first, or I will 
ive you all hanged |” 
The boat had by this time reached them ; the secretary and intendant 
apt into the sea, and approached the marquis, who no longer showed 
iy sign of life. 
“T commit him to your care, as you value your lives,” said the duke. 
Take M. de Wardes on shore.” They took him in their arms, and 
uried him to the dry sand, where the tide never rose so high, A few 
lers and five or six fishermen had gathered on the shore, attracted by 
.e strange spectacle of two men fighting with the water up to their knees. 
he fishermen, observing a group of men approaching carrying a wounded 
an, entered the sea until the water was up to the middle of their bodies. 
he English transferred the wounded man to them at the very moment 
\e latter began to open his eyes again. The salt water and the fine sand 
id got into his wounds, and caused him the acutest pain. The duke’s 
:cretary drew out a purse filled with gold from his pocket, and handed 
to the one among those present who appeared of most importance, say- 
ig :—“ From my master, his grace the Duke of Buckingham, in order 
f ‘evéry conceivable care may be taken of the Marquis de Wardes.” 
hen, followed by those who had accompanied him, he returned to the 
ut, which Buckingham had been enabled to reach with the greatest 
iculty, but only after he had seen De Wardes out of danger. By this 
he it was high tide: the embroidered coats and silk sashes were lost ; 
‘any hats, too, had been carried away by the waves. The flow of the 
de had borne the duke’s and De Wardes’ clothes to the shore, and De 
Vardes was wrapped in the duke’s doublet, under the belief that it was 
is own, and they carried him in their arms towards the town. 


CHAPTER CV, 
THREEFOLD LOVE. 


.§ soon as Buckingham had gone, Guiche imagined that the coast \ ould 
e perfectly clear for him without any interference. Monsieur, who no 
ynger retained the slightest feeling of jealousy, and who, besides, per- 
uitted himself to be monopolised by the Chevalier de Lorraine, allowed 
s much liberty and freedom in his house as the most exacting person 
ould desire. The king, on his side, who had conceived a strong predi- 
ection for Madame’s society, invented a variety of amusements, in quick 
uccession to each other, in order to render her residence in Paris as 
heerful as possible, so that, in fact, not a day passed without a ball at 
ne Palais Royal, or a reception in Monsieur’s apartments. The king had 
irected that Fontainebleau should be prepared for the reception of the 
ourt, and every one was using his utmost interest to get invited. Ma- 
ame led a life of incessant occupation, neither her voice nor her pen 
vere idle fora moment. The conversations with De Guiche were gradu- 
lly assuming a tone of interest which might unmistakably be recognised 
s the preludes of a deep-seated attachment. When eyes look languish- 
agly while the subject under discussion happens to be the colours of 
qaterials for dresses ; when a whole hour is occupied in analysing the 
1erits and the perfume of a sachet or a flower ; there are words in this 
tyle of conversation, which every one might listen to, but there are 
estures and sighs which every ane cannot perceive. After Madame had 


2S ESN Te CSPI oye 


480 THE VICOMTE DE BRACELONNE. 


talkea for Some time with De Guichie, she conversed with the king, wh 
paid her a visit regularly every day. They played, wrote verses, « 
selected mottoes or emblematical devices ; the spring was not only tk 
spring-time of seasons, it was the youth of an entire people, of whic 
those at court were the head. The king was handsome, young, and | 
unequalled gallantry. All women were passionately loved by him, eve 
the queen his wife This great king was, however, more timid and more r 
served than any otl.er person in the kingdom, to such a degree, indee 
that he had not confessed his sentiments even to himself. This timidi 
of bearing restrained him within the limits of ordinary politeness, andr 
woman could boast of having had any preference shown her beyond th; 
shown to others. It might be foretold that the day when his real charact 
would be displayed would be the dawn of a new sovereignty ; but as y 
he had not declared himself. M. de Guiche took advantage of this, an 
constituted himself the sovereign prince of the whole amorous court. | 
had been reported that he was on the best of terms with Mademoiselle ¢ 
Montalais ; that he had heen assiduously attentive to Mademoiselle d 
Chatillon ; but now he was not even barely civil to any of the cou: 
beauties. He had eyes and ears but for one person alone. In _th: 
manner, and, as it were, without design, he devoted himself to Monsi 
who hada great regard for him, and kept him as much as possible in \e 
own apartments. Unsociable from natural disposition, he estranged h‘ 
self too much previous to the arrival of Madame, but, after her arrival,? 
did not estrange himself sufficiently. This conduct, which every one h. 
observed, had been particularly remarked by the evil genius of the hous: 
the Chevalier de Lorraine, for whom Monsieur exhibited the warmest attacl 
ment, because he was of a very cheerful disposition even in his remarl 
most full of malice, and because he was never at a loss how to make tt 
time pass away. The Chevalier de Lorraine, therefore, having notice 
that he was threatened with being supplanted by De Guiche, resorted 1 
strong measures. He disappeared from the court, leaving Monsieur muc 
embarrassed. The first day of his disappearance, Monsieur hardly i: 
quired about him, for he had De Guiche with him, and, except the tim 
devoted to conversation with Madame, his days and nights were rigorous! 
devoted to the prince, On the second day, however, Monsieur, finding n 
one near him, inquired where the chevalier was. He was told that n 
one knew. 

De Guiche, after having spent the morning in selecting embroiderie 
and fringes with Madame, went to console the prince. But after dinne 
as there were tulips and amethysts to look at, De Guiche returned t 
Madame’s cabinet. Monsieur was left quite to himself during all th 
time he devoted to dressing and decorating himself; he felt that he wa 
the most miserable of men, and again inquired whether there was an 
news of the chevalier, in reply to which he was told, that no one kne: 
where the chevalier was to be found. Monsieur, hardly knowing in wh 
direction to inflict his weariness, went to Madame’s apartments dresse 
in his morning-gown. He found a large assemblage of people ther 
laughing and whispering in every part of the room ; at one end, a grou 
of women around one of the courtiers, talking together, amid smothere 
bursts of laughter ; at the other end, Manicamp and Malicorne wer 
being pillaged by Montalais and Mademoiselle de Torinay-Charent 
while two others were standing by, laughing. In another part were Mz 
dame, seated upon some cushions on the floor, and De Guiche, on hi 
knees beside her, spreading out a handful of pearls and precious =e 


THREEFOLD LOVE, 481 


while the princess, with her white and slender finger, pointed out such 
among them as pleased her the most. Again, in another corner of the room, 
a guitar-player was playing some of the Spanish sequedillas, to which 
Madame had taken the greatest fancy ever since she had heard them 
sung by the young queen with a melancholly expression of voice. But 
the songs which the Spanish princess had sung with tears in her eyes, 
the young Englishwoman was humming with a smile which displayed 
her beautiful pearl-like teeth. The cabinet presented, in fact, the most 
perfect representation of unrestrained pleasure and amusement. As he 
entered, Monsieur was struck at beholding so many persons enjoying 
themselves without him. He was so jealous at the sight that he could 
not resist saying, like a child, “What! you are amusing yourselves here, 
while I am sick and tired of being alone !” 

The sound of his voice was like a clap of thunder which interrupts the 
warbling of birds under the leafy covert of the trees ; a dead silence en- 
sued. De Guiche was on his feet in amoment. Malicorne tried to hide 
himself behind Montalais’ dress. Manicamp stood bolt upright, and 
assumed a very ceremonious demeanour. The guitar-player thrust his 
guitar under a table, covering it with a piece of carpet to conceal it from 
ithe prince’s observation. Madame was the only one who did not move, 
' jd, smiling at her husband, said, “Is not this the hour you usually devote 

> your toilette ?” 

“ An hour which others select, it seems, for amusing themselves,” replied 
Ne prince, grumblingly. 

/ This untoward remark was the signal for a general rout ; the women 
‘fled like a flight of terrified birds, the guitar-player vanished like a shadow; 
\Malicorne, still protected by Montalais, who purposely widened out her 
idress, glided behind the hanging tapestry. As for Manicamp, he went to 
the assistance of De Guiche, who naturally remained near Madame, and 
{both of them, with the princess herself, courageously sustained the attack. 
'The comte was too happy to bear malice against the husband ; but Mon- 
'sieur bore a grudge against his wife. Nothing was wanting but a quarrel ; 
\he sought it, and thehurried departure of the crowd, which had been so joy- 
‘ous before he arrived, and was so disturbed by his entrance, furnished him 
\with a pretext. 

| “Why do they run away at the sight of me?” he inquired, in a super- 
cilious tone; to which remark Madame replied, “that, whenever the 
}master of the house made his appearance, the family kept aloof out of 
respect.” As she said this, she made so funny and so pretty a grimace, 
hat De Guiche and Manicamp could not control themselves ; they burst 
into a peal of laughter ; Madame followed their example, and even Mon- 
#ieur himself could not resist it, and he was obliged to sit down, as for 
Jaughing he could scarcely keep his equilibrium. However, he very soon 
Heft off, but his anger had increased. He was still more furious from 
aving allowed himself to laugh, than from having seen others laugh. 
'He looked at Manicamp steadily, not venturing to show his anger to- 
‘wards De Guiche; but at a sign which displayed no little amount of 
annoyance, Manicamp and De Guiche left the room, so that Madame, 
left alone, began sadly to pick up her pearls, no longer laughing, and 
‘speaking still less. 

| “Tam very happy,” said the duke, “to find myself treated as a stranger 
here, Madame,” and he left the room ina passion. On his way out, he 
met Montalais, who was in attendance in the anteroom. “It is very 
agreeable to pay you a visit here, but outside the door.” 


31 


482 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


Montalais made a very low obeisance. “I do not quite understaric 
what your royal highness does me the honour to say.” 
_ “T say that when you are all laughing together in Madame’s apartment 
he is an unwelcome visitor who does not remain outside.” 
‘“ Your royal highness does not think, and does not speak so, of yourself.’ 
“On the contrary, it is on my own account that I do speak and think 
I have no reason, certainly, to flatter myseif about the receptions I meet 
with here at any time. How is it that, on the very day there is music anc 
a little society in Madame’s apartments—in my own apartments, indeed 
for they are mine—on the very day that I wish to amuse myself a litle ir 
my; turn, every one runs away? Are they afraid to see me, that they al. 
took to flight as soon as I appeared? Is there anything wrong, then, going 
on in my absence ?” 
“ Yet nothing has been done to-day, monseigneur, which is not done 
every day.”— —« What ! do they laugh like that. every day !” 
» “Why, yes, monseigneur.” 
4 wore same group of people, and the same scraping, going on every 
ay 
é The guitar, monseigneur, was introduced to-day ; but when we has: 
no guitars, we have violins and flutes : ; women get wearied without th 
“The deuce !—and the men !”——“ What men, monseigneur !” 
““M. de Guiche, M. de Manicamp, and the others.” cd 
= “They all belong to your highness’s household.” ) 
“Yes, yes, you're right,” said the prince, as he returned to his own apart 
ments, full of thought. He threw himself into the largest of his arm-chairs 
without looking at himself in the glass. ‘Where can the chevalier be?” 
said he. One of the prince’s attendants happened to be near him, over: 
heard his remark, and replied,—“S No one knows, your highness.” 
“Stillthe same answer. The first one who answers me again, ‘I do no 
know,’ I will discharge.” Every one at this remark hurried out of hi: 
apartments, in the same manner as the others had fled from Madame’: 
apartments. The prince then flew into the wildest rage. Hekicked ove 
a chiffonier, which tumbled upon the carpet, broken into pieces. He nex 
went into the galleries, and with the greatest coolness threw down, one afte 
another, an enamelled vase, a porphyry ewer, and a bronze chandelier. The 
noise summoned every one to the various doors. 
‘“‘What is your highness’s pleasure ?” said the captain of the guare 
timidly. 
“T am treating myself to some music,” replied the prince, gnashing hi 
teeth. 
The captain of the guards desired his royal highness’s physician to b 
sent for. But before he came, Malicorne arrived, saying to the prince 
“ Monseigneur, the Chevalier de Lorraine is here.” 
The duke looked at Malicorne, and smiled graciously at him, just as . 
chevalier entered in fact. 


ed 


CHAPTER: CVE 
M. DE LORRAINE’S JEALOUSY. 


THE Duc d’Orleans uttered a cry of delight on perceiving the Chevalie 

de Lorraine. “ This is fortunate, indeed,” he said ; “ by what happy chanc 

do I see you? Had you indeed disappeared, as every one assured me! 
“Yes, monseigneur.”——“ Some caprice ?” 


M. DE LORRAINE’S JEALOUSY. 483 


“T to venture pon caprices with your highness ! The respect——” 

_ “Put respect out of the way, for you fail in it every day. labsolve you ; 
but why did you leave me ?” 

“Because I felt that I was of no usé to you.” “Explain yourself.” 

“Your highness has people about you who are far more amusing than 
I can ever be. I felt that I was not strong enough to enter into a con- 
test with them, and I therefore withdrew.” 

“This extreme diffidence shows a want of common sense. Who are 
those with whom you cannot contend? De Guiche ?” 

I name no one.”——“ This is absurd. Does De Guiche annoy you ”” 

“I do not say he does ; do not force me to speak, however ; you know 
very well that De Guiche is one of our best friends.” 

“Who is it, then ?” 

“Excuse me, monseigneur, let us say no more about it.” The chevalier 
knew perfectly well that curiosity is excited in the same way as thirst—by 
removing that which quenches it; or, in other words, by delaying the 
explanation. 

No, no,” said the prince, “I wish to know why you went away.” 
} 


; ‘‘In- that case, monseigneur, I will tell you; but do not be angry. I 
narked that my presence was disagreeable.” 
To whom?” “To Madame.” 
‘What do you mean ?” said the duke, in astonishment. 
|“ It is simple enough : Madame is very probably jealous of the regard 
fou are good enough to testify for me.” 


| 
/ 


“Since the time when, M. de Guiche having made himself more agree- 
¢ to her than I could, she receives him at every and any hour.” 
The duke coloured. “At any hour, chevalier ; what do you mean by 


at?” 

x You see, your highness, I have already displeased’ you ; I was quite 

sure I should.” 

| “IT am not displeased ; but you say things a little strong. In what 

iespect does Madame prefer De Guiche to you ?” 

“IT shall say no more,” said the chevalier, saluting the prince cere- 

noniously. ' 

| “On the contrary, I require you to speak. If you withdraw on that 

ccount, you must indeed be very jealous.” 

/ “One cannot help being jealous, monseigneur, when one loves. Is not 
ur royal highness jealous of Madame? Would not your royal highness, 
you saw some one always near Madame, and always treated with great 
vour, take umbrage at it? One’s friends are as one’s lovers. Your 

byal highness has sometimes conferred the distinguished honour upon 

qe of calling me your friend.” ; een 
“Yes, yes ; but you used a phrase which has a very equivocal significa- 
on ; you are unfortunate in your remarks.” 
“What phrase, monseigneur ?” ; 
“You said, ‘treated with great favour.’ What do you mean by favour ?” 
“Nothing can be more simple,” said the chevalier, with an expression 

f great frankness ; “for instance, whenever a husband remarks that his 

‘ife summons such and such a man near her—whenever this man is 

lways to be found by her side, or in attendance at the door of her carriage ; 

hhenever the bouquet of the one is always the same colour as the ribbons 
31—2 


484 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


of the other—when music and supper parties are held in the private apa 
ments—whenever a dead silence takes place immediately the husba 
makes his appearance in his wife’s rooms—and when the husband sudder 
finds that he has, as a companion, the most devoted and the kindest 
men, who, a week before, was with him as little as possible; why then— 

“ Well, finish.” 

“ Why, then, I say, monseigneur, one possibly may get jealous. But 
these details hardly apply ; for our conversation had nothing to do w 
them.” | 

The duke was evidently much agitated, and seemed to struggle witl 
himself a good deal. ‘You have not told me,” he then remarked, “ w 
you absented yourself. A little while ago you said it was from a fear 
intruding ; you added, even, that you had observed a disposition 
Madame’s part to encourage De Guiche.” 

‘Pardon me, monseigneur, I did not say that.”——“ You did, indeed 

“ Well, if I did say so, I noticed nothing but what was very inoffensiv 

“ At all events, you remarked something.” 

“You embarrass me, monseigneur.” 

“What does that matter? Answer me. If you speak the truth, 
should you feel embarrassed ?” 7 

“T always speak the truth, monseigneur; but I also always hes\ 
when it is a question of repeating what others say.” | 

“ Ah! ah! you repeat? It appears that it is talked about, then ?” P 

“T acknowledge that others have spoken to me on the subject.” —_ 

“Who ?” said the prince. | 

The chevalier assumed almost an angry air, as he replied, “‘ Mons¢ 
neur, you are subjecting me to the question ; you treat me as a crimi| 
at the bar; and the rumours which idly pass by a gentleman’s ears,| 
not remain there. Your highness wishes me to magnify the rumour uJ 
it attains the importance of an event.” | 

“‘ However,” said the duke, in great displeasure, “the fact remains t| 
you withdrew on account of this report.” 

“To speak the truth, others have talked to me of the attentions of | 
de Guiche to Madame, nothing more ; perfectly harmless, I repeat, 4 
more than that, permissible. But do not be unjust, monseigneur, and| 
not attach an undue importance to it. It does not concern you.” | 

“MM. de Guiche’s attentions to Madame do not concern me?” 

“ No, monseigneur ; and what I say to you I would say to De Gui 
himself, so little do I think of the attentions he pays Madame. Nay 
would say it even to Madame herself. Only, you understand, what I 
afraid of—I am afraid of being thought jealous of the favour shown, wl] 
I am only jealous as far as friendship is concerned. I know your disp 
tion; I know that when you bestow your affections you become exc] 
ively attached. You love Madame—and who, indeed, would not love 
Follow me attentively, as I proceed :—Madame has noticed among 
friends the handsomest and most fascinating of them all; she will be 
to influence you on his behalf, in such a way that you will neglect 
others. Your indifference wouid kill me ; it is already bad enough to 
to support Madame’s indifference. I have, therefore, made up my nj 
to give way to the favourite whose happiness I envy, even while I acknj 
ledge my sincere friendship and sincere admiration for him. Well, 4 

seigneur, do you see anything to object to in this reasoning? Is it 
that of amanof honour? Is my conduct that of asincere friend? Ans 
me, at least, after having so closely questioned me.” 


M. DE LORRAINE’S JEALOUSY. 485 


The duke had seated himself, with his head buried in his hands. After 
a silence, long enough to enable the chevalier to judge of the effect of his 
oratorical display, the duke rose, saying, ‘‘ Come, be candid.” 

“As I always am.” 

“Very well. You know that we already observed something respecting 
that mad fellow, Buckingham.” 
' “Do not say anything against Madame, monseigneur, or 1 shall take 
my leave. Is it possible you can be suspicious of Madame ?” 

“No, no, chevalier ; 1 do not suspect Madame ; but, in fact, I observe 
—I compare——” 

‘Buckingham was a madman, monseigneur.” 

“A madman about whom, however, you opened my eyes thoroughly.” 

““No, no,” said the chevalier, quickly ; “it was not I who opened your 
eyes. It was De Guiche. Do not confound us, I beg.” And he began 
to laugh in so harsh a manner that it sounded like the hiss of a serpent. 

“Yes, yes; I remember. You said a few words, but De Guiche showed 
the most jealousy.” 

“TI should think so,” continued the chevalier, in the same tone. ‘He 
vas fighting for home and altar.” 

“What did you say?” said the duke, haughtily, thoroughly roused by 
} Ansidious jest. 
/ /jAm I not right? for does not M. de Guiche hold the chief post of 
)) our in your household ?” 

_¥* Well,” replied the duke, somewhat calmed, “had this passion of Buck- 
' Jcham been remarked ?’———“ Certainly.” 

{ ‘Very well. Do people say that M. de Guiche’s is remarked as much?” 
‘Pardon me, monseigneur ; you are again mistaken ; no one says that 
. de Guiche entertains anything of the sort.” “Very good.” 

“You see, monseigneur, that it would have been better, a hundred times 
etter, to have left me in my retirement, than to have allowed you to conjure 
up, by the aid of any scruples I may have had, suspicions which Madame 
ill regard as crimes, and she will be right, too.” 

* What would you do ??—-—“ Act reasonably.” 

“In what way ?” 

“JT should not pay the slightest attention to the society of these new 
picurean philosophers ; and, in that way, the rumours will cease.” 
“Well, I shall see ; I shall think over it.” 

** Oh, you have time enough ; the danger is not great ; and then, besides, 
It is not a question either of danger or of passion, It all arose from a fear 

had to see your friendship for me decrease. From the very moment 
ou restore it me, with so kind an assurance of its existence, 1 have no 
fonger any other idea in my head.” 
} The duke shook his head, as if he meant tosay: “If you haveno more 
Ideas, I have though.” It being now the dinner-hour, the prince sent to 
Jnform Madame of it, who returned a message to the effect that she could 
ot be present, but would dine in her own apartment, 

‘That is not my fault,” said the duke. ‘“ This morning, having taken 
hem by surprise, in the midst of a musical party, I got jealous ; and so 
hey are in the sulks with me.” 

“* We will dine alone,” said the chevalier, with a sigh ; “I regret De 
Guiche js not here.” 

“Oh! De Guiche will not remain long in the sulks ; he is a very good- 
atured fellow” 

** Monseigneur,’ said the chevalier, suddenly, “an excellent idea has 


486 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


struck me, in our conversation just now. I may have exasperated your 
highness, and caused you some dissatisfaction. It is but fitting that I 
should be the mediator. I will go and look for the comte, and bring him 
back with me.” ; 

“ Ah! chevalier, you are really a very good-natured fellow.” 

“You say that as if you were surprised.” 

* Well, you are not so tender-hearted every day.” 

“That may be; but confess that I know how to repair a wrong I may 
have done.”———“‘I confess that.” 

‘Will your highness do me the favour to wait here a few minutes ?” 

“Willingly ; be off, and I will try on my Fontainebieau costume.” 

The chevalier left the room, called his different attendants with the 
greatest care, as if he was giving them different orders. All went off in 
various directions, but he retained his valet-de-chambre. “ Ascertain, and 
immediately too, if M. de Guiche is not in Madame’s apartments. How 
can one learn it 27 

“Very easily, monsieur. I will ask Malicorne, who will learn it from 
Mlle. de Montalais. I may as well tell you, however, that the inquiry will 
be useless: for all M. de Guiche’s attendants are gone, and he must have 
left with them.”———“ Try and learn, nevertheless.” oS ae 

Ten minutes had hardly passed when the valet returned. He bec’ Pye 
his master mysteriously towards the servants’ staircase, and shon.?,\'s_ 
into a small room with a window looking out upon the garden. “Y ~ 
the matter,” said the chevalier: “ why so many precautions ?” ~o 

“‘ Look, monsieur,” said the valet, ‘look yonder, under the walnut-tr, , \ 

“Ah !” said the chevalier, “ I see Manicamp there. What is he waitin,’ 
for 2” | 
“You will see in a moment, monsieur, if you wait patiently. There, do 
you see now 2” . 

“T see one, two, four musicians with their instruments, and behind them, 
urging them on, De Guiche himself. What is he doing there, though ?” 

“He is waiting until the little door of the staircase, belonging to the 
ladies of honour, is opened ; by that staircase he will ascend to Madame’s 
apartments, where some new pieces of music are going to be performed 
during dinner.” 

“That is admirable which you tell me.”—-—“ Is it not, monsieur ?” 

“Was it M. de Malicorne who told you this ?»—-—“ Yes, monsieur.” 

“ He likes you, then ?”’———“ No, monsieur, it is Monsieur whom he likes.” 

“ Why ?’——“ Because he wishes to belong to his household.” : 

“And most certainly he shall. How much did he give you for that ?? 

“The secret which I now dispose of to you, monsieur.” 

“And which I buy fora hundred pistoles. Take them.” 

“Thank you, monsieur. Look, look, the little door opens, a woman 
admits the musicians.”—“ It is Montalais.” | 

‘“ Hush, monseigneur; do not call out her name; whoever says Monta- 
lais says Malicorne. If you quarrel with the one, you will be on bad terms 
with the other.”———“ Very well ; I have seen nothing.” 

“And I,” said the valet, pocketing the purse, “have received nothing.” 

The chevalier, being now certain that Guiche had entered, returned to 
the prince, whom he found splendidly dressed and radiant with joy, as 
with good looks. “I am told,” he exclaimed, “that the king has taken 

d y] 5S 
the sun as his device ; really, monseigneur, it is you whom this device 
would best suit.”—--—“* Where is De Guiche ?” | 

“He cannot be found. He has fled—has evaporated entirely. Your 


| M. DE LORRAINE’S JEALOUSY. 487 
) ° 
scolding of this morning terrified him. He could not be found in his 
apartments.” . 

_ “Bah ! the hare-brained fellow is capable of setting off post-haste to his 
,own estates. Poor fellow! we will recall him. Come, let us dine now.” 

“ Monseigneur, to-day is a day of ideas ; I have another.” 

“ What is it ?” 

.. “Madame is angry with you, and she has reason to be so. You owe 

her her revenge ; go and dine with her.” 

_ “Oh, that would be acting like a weak husband.” 

| “It is the duty of a good husband to do so. The princess is no doubt 
wearied enough ; she will be weeping in her plate, and her eyes will get 
quite red. A husband who is the cause of his wife’s eyes getting red is an 
odious creature. Come, monseigneur, come.” 

“T cannot, for I have directed dinner to be served here.” 

“Yet see, monseigneur, how dull we shall be. Is all be low-spirited 
because I know that Madame will be alone ; you, hard and savage as you 
wish to appear, will be sighing all the while. Take me with you to Madame’s 
dinner, and that will be a delightful surprise. I am sure we shall be very 
merry. You were wrong this morning.” . 

N — Well, perhaps I was.” 

“There is no perhaps at all, for it is a fact you were so.” 

“Chevalier, chevalier, your advice -s not good.” 

“ Nay, my advice is good ; all the advantages are on your own side. 

Your violet-coloured suit, embroidered with gold, becomes you admirably. 
Madame will be as much vanquished by the man as by the step. Come, 
| monseigneur.” “You decide me ; let us go.” 
The duke left his room, accompanied by the chevalier, and went to- 
\wards Madame’s apartments. The chevalier hastily whispered to his 
valet, “ Be sure that there are some people before the little door, so that 
no one can escape in that direction. Run, run!” And he followed the 
duke towards the antechambers of Madame’s suite of apartments, and 
when the ushers were about to an ounce them, the chevalier said, laugh- 
ing, “ His highness wishes to surprise Madame.” 


7 
} 


CHAPTER CVtit. 
MONSIEUR IS JEALOUS OF GUICHE. 


MONSIEUR entered the room abruptly, as those persons do who mean well 
and think they confer pleasure, or as those who hope to surprise some 
ecret, the melancholy reward of jealous people. Madame, almost out of 
er senses at the first bars of music, was dancing in the most unrestrained 
anner, leaving the dinner, which had been already begun unfinished. 
Her partner was M. de Guiche, who, with his arms raised and his eyes 
half closed, was kneeling on one knee, like the Spanish dancers, with 
looks full of passion, and gestures of the most caressing character. The 
|princess was dancing round him with a responsive smile, and the same 
‘air of alluring seductiveness. Montalais stood by admiringly ; La Valliére, 
‘seated in a corner of the room, looked on thoughtfully. It is impossible 
‘to describe the effect which the presence of the prince produced upon this 
\happy company, and it would be just as impossible to describe the effect 
iq.hich the sight of their happiness produced upon Philip. The Comte de 
_ buiche had no power to move ; Madame remained in the middle of ona 
yef the figures and of an attitude, unable to utter a word, The Chevalier 


488 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


de Lorraine, leaning his back against the doorway, smiled like a man in 
the very height of the frankest admiration. The pallor of the prince, and. 
the convulsive trembling of his hands and limbs, were the first symptoms 
that struck those present. A dead silence succeeded the sound of the 
dance. The Chevalier de Lorraine took advantage of this interval to 
salute Madame and De Guiche most respectfully, affecting to join them 
together in his reverences, as though they were the master and mistress of 
the house. Monsieur then approached them, saying, in a hoarse tone of 
voice, “I am delighted. I came here expecting to find you ill and low- 
spirited, and I find you abandoning yourself to new amusements. Really, 
it is most fortunate ; my house is the merriest in the whole kingdom.” 
Then, turning towards De Guiche, “‘ Comte,” he said, “ I did not know you 
were so good a dancer.” And, again addressing his wife, he said, “Show 
a little more consideration for me, Madame; whenever you intend to 
amuse yourselves here, invite me. I am a prince, unfortunately, very 
much neglected.” 

Guiche had now recovered his self-possession, and with the spirited 
boldness which was natural to him, and which so well became him, he 
said : “ Your highness knows very well that my very life is at your service, 
and whenever there is a question of its being needed, I am ready ; but. 
to-day, as it is only a question of dancing to music, I dance.” 

“ And you are perfectly right,” said the prince, coldly. “ But, Madame,” 
he continued, “you do not remark that your ladies deprive me of my 
friends? M. de Guiche does not belong to you, Madame, but to me. If 
you wish to dine without me, you have your ladies ; when I dine alone I 
have my gentlemen. Do not strip me of everything.” | 

Madame felt the reproach and the lesson, and the colour rushed to her 
face. “Monsieur,” she replied, “I was not aware, when I came to the 
court of France, that princesses of my rank were to be regarded as the 
women in Turkey are—I was not aware that we were not allowed to be 
seen ; but, since such is your desire, I will conform myself to it. Pray do 
not hesitate, if you should wish it, to have my windows barred even.” 

This repartee, which made Montalais and De Guiche smile, rekindled 
the prince’s anger, no inconsiderable portion of which. had already evapo- 
rated in words. 

“Very well,” he said, in a concentrated tone of voice, “this is the way, 
in which I am respected in my own house.” 

“ Monseigneur, monseigneur !” murmured the chevalier in the duke’s 
‘ear, in such a manner that every one could observe he was endeavouring 
to calm him. 

“Come,” replied the prince, as his only answer to the remark, hurrying 
him away, and turning round with so hasty a movement that he almost 
ran against Madame. ‘The chevalier followed him to his own apartment, 
where the prince had no sooner seated himself than he gave free rein to 
his fury. The chevalier raised his eyes towards the ceiling, joined his 
hands together, and said not a word. ; 

“Give me your opinion !” exclaimed the prince.——“ Upon what ?” 

“ Upon what is taking place here.” 

“Oh, monseigneur, it is a very serious matter.” 

‘It is abominable! I cannot live in this manner.” | 

“ How unhappy all this is,” said the chevalier. “We hoped to enjoy tiafe 
quillity, after that madman Buckingham had left,” \ 

“ And this is worse.” 

“1 do not say that, monseigneur.” 


MONSIEUR IS JEALOUS OF GUICHE. 489 


“Yes, but I say it, for Buckingham would never have ventured upon a 
fourth part of what we have just now seen.” 

“What do you mean ?” . 

“Toconceal one’s self for the purpose of dancing, and to feign indisposition 
r order to dine /e/e-a-/é/e.” “No, no, monseigneur.” 


“Yes, yes,” exclaimed the prince, exciting himself like a self-willed child ‘ 
but I will not endure it any longer, I must learn what is really going on.” 
“Oh, monseigneur, an exposure r 
“By Heaven, monsieur, am I to put myself out of the way, when people 
show so little consideration for me! Wait for me here, chevalier, wait for 
me here.” The prince disappeared in the neighbouring apartment, and 
inquired of the gentlemen in attendance if the queen-mother had re- 
jurned from chapel. Anne of Austria felt that her happiness was now 
complete ; peace restored to her family, a nation delighted with the pre- 
hence of a young monarch, who had shown an aptitude for affairs of 
sreat importance ; the revenues of the state increased ; external peace 
issured ; everything seemed to promise a tranquil future for her. Her 
thoughts recurred, now and then, to that poor young man whom she 
| ad received as a mother, and had driven away as a hard-hearted step- 
hotter, and she sighed as she thought of him. 
Suddenly, the Duc d’Orleans entered her room. “ Dear mother,” he 
>xclaimed hurriedly, closing the door, “things cannot go on as they noware.” 
Anne of Austria raised her beautiful eyes towards him, and with an un 
noved gentleness of manner, said, “ What things do you allude to ?” 

“T wish to speak of Madame.” 

“Your wife ?’——“ Yes, madame.” 
\ “I supposethat silly fellow Buckingham has been writing a farewell letter 
> her.” 

“Oh! yes, madame ; of course, it is a question of Buckingham.” 
'“ Of whom else could it be, then? for that poor fellow was, wrongly 
‘nough, the object of your jealousy, and I thought @ 
“My wife, madame, has already replaced the Duke of Buckingham.” 
“Philip, what are you saying? You are speaking very heedlessly.” 
“No, no.— Madame has so managed matters, that I am still jealous.” 
** Of whom, in Heaven’s name ?” 
“Is it possible you have not remarked it? Have you not noticed that 
Mf. de Guiche is always in her apartments—always with her.” 
The queen clapped her hands together, and began to laugh. “ Philip,” she 
id, “your jealousy is not merely a defect, it is a positive disease.” 
“Whether a defect or a disease, madame, I am the sufferer from it.” 
“And do you imagine, that a complaint which exists only in your own 
aagination can be cured? You wish it to be said, you are right in being 
alous, when there is no ground whatever for your jealousy.” 

“Of course, you will begin to say for this one what you always said on 
Jehalf of the other.” 
‘Because, Philip” said the queen dryly, “what you did for the other, 
‘ou are going to do for this one.” 
The prince bowed, slightly annoyed. “If I were to give you facts,” he 
aid, “ will you believe me?” 
. “Tf it regarded anything else but jealousy, I would believe you without 
‘our bringing facts forward ; but, as jealousy is in the case, I promise 
,othing.” 
 “Itis just the same as if your majesty were to desire me to hold my 
ongue, and sent me away unheard,” 


499 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONWNE. 


“ Far from it ; as you are my son, I owe you a mother’s indulgence.” 
~ “Oh, say what you think ; you owe me as much indulgence as a mad. 
man deserves.” 

“Do not exaggerate, Philip, and take care how you represent your wife 
to me as a woman of a depraved mind "A 

‘“‘ But facts, mother, facts !’——“ Well, I am listening.” | 

“This morning, at ten o’clock, they were playing music in Madame’s 
apartments.”—_“ No harm in that, surely.” 

-“M. de Guiche was talking with her alone——Ah ! I forgot to tell you 
that, during the last ten days, he has never left her side.” . 

“If they were doing any harm they would hide themselves.” 

“ Very good,” exclaimed the duke, “I expected you to say that. Pray do 
not forget what you have just said. This morning, I took them by surprise, 
and showed my dissatisfaction in a very marked manner.” 

“Rely upon it, that is quite sufficient, it was, perhaps, even a little too 
much. These young women easily take offence. To reproach them for an 
error they have not committed is, sometimes, almost the same as telling 
them they might do it.” 

“Very good, very good; but wait a minute. Do not forget what you have 
just this minute said, that this morning’s lesson ought to have been suff 
cient, and that if they had been doing what was wrong, they would hay 
concealed themselves.”—-—“ Yes, I said so. ' 

“Well, just now, repenting of my hastiness of this morning, and know- 
ing that Guiche was sulking in his own apartments, I went to pay Ma- 
dame a visit. Can you guess what, or whom, I fo nd there?—Anothe 
set of musicians ; more dancing, and Guiche himself—he was concealed 
there.;, 

Anne of Austria frowned. “It was imprudent,” she said. “ What di 
Madame say ?”---—“ Nothing.” 

‘And Guiche ?” 

“As much—oh, no! he muttered some impertinent remark or another.’ 

“ Well, what is your opinion, Philip ?” 

“That I have been made a fool of ; that Buckingham was onlya pretext 
and that Guiche is the one who is really guilty.” 

Anne shrugged her shoulders. ‘ Well,” she said, “* what else ?” 

“TI wish De Guiche to be dismissed from my household, as Buckingham 
was, and I shall ask the king, unless—-—” 

“Unless what ?” 

“Unless you, my dear mother, who are so clever and so kind, will exe) 
cute the commission yourself.” au ai 

“T shall not do it, Philip.”—-“ What, madame ?” 

“Listen, Philip ; I am not disposed to pay people ill compliments ever 
day ; I have some influence vver young people, but I cannot take adva 
tage of it without running the chance of losing it altogether. Besides 
there is nothing to prove that M. de Guiche is guilty.” 

* He has displeased me.” “That is your own affair.” 

* Very well, I know what I shall do,” said the prince, wngiuously. | 

Anne looked at him with some uneasiness. “What do you intend te 
do?” she said. , 

“I will have him drowned in my reservoir, the next time I find him ir 
my apartments again.” Having launched this terrible threat, the prince 
expected his mother would be frightened out of her senses ; but the queer 
was unmoved by it. “Do so,” she said. 

Philip was as weak as 2 woman, and began to cry out, “ Every one be: 
trays me,—no one cares for me ; my mother eyen joins my enemies.” 


MONSIEUR IS JEALOUS OF GUICHE. 491 


sees further in the matter than you do, and does 


Your mother, Philip, 
since you do not listen to her.” 


care about advising you, 


I will go to the king.” 
that to you. I am now expecting his majesty ; 


I was about to propose ou 
; the hour he usually pays me a visit ; explain the matter to him your- 


rod 

she had hardly finished when Philip heard the door of the anteroom 
mm with some noise. He began to feel nervous. At the sound of the 
es footsteps, which could be heard upon the carpet, the duke hurriedly 
de his escape out of the room. Anne of Austria could not resist 
ghing, and was laughing still when the king entered. He came very 
sctionately to inquire after the even now uncertain health of the queen- 
‘ther, and to announce to her that the preparations for the journey to 
ntainebleau were complete. Seeing her laugh, his uneasiness on her 
sount diminished, and he addressed her in a laughing tone himself. 
‘ne of Austria took him by the hand, and in a voice full of play- 
ness, said, “Do you know, sire, that I am proud of being a Spanish 


iman ?” 

“Why, madame ?” 

‘“Recause Spanish women are wort 
“4 »____“ Explain yourself.” 

_ Since your marriage, you have not, I believe, had a single reproach 


h more than English women at 


make against the queen.” ——““ Certainly not.” 
“And you, too, have been married some time. Your brother, on the 
ntrary, has been married only a fortnight.” Well ?” 


“ He is now finding fault with Madame a second time.” 
“What, Buckingham still 2” 

“ No, another.” 

“Who ?” “ Guiche.” 

“Really, Madame is a coquette, then.”——“ I fear so.” 
“My poor brother,” said the king, laughing. 
“You do not mind coquetting, it seems ?” 
“In Madame, certainly I do ; but Madame is not a coquette at heart.” 
|“ That may be, but your brother is excessively angry about it.” 

ye What does he want ?”——“ He wishes to drown Guiche.” 

“That is a violent measure to resort to.” 

‘Do not laugh, he is extremely irritated 

iy To save Guiche—certainly.” 

“ Oh, if your brother heard you, he would conspire against you as your 
cle Monsieur did against your father.” 
“No; Philip has too much affection for me for that, and I on my side, 
ave too great a regard for him ; we shall live together on very good 
irms. But what is the substance of his request ?” 

|* That you will prevent Madame from being a coquette, and Guiche 


jm being amiable.” 
\“Ts that all? My brother has an exalted idea of sovereign power. To 


form a woman ! not to say a word about reforming a man !” 
-“ How will you set about it ?” 
“With a word to Guiche, who 1s 


bnvince him.”—-—“ But Madame ?” 
| ; 
'« That is more difficult ; a word will not be enough. I will compose a 


pray and read it to her.” —“ There is no time to lose.” 
“Oh, I will use the utmost diligence, There is a repetition of the 


allet this afternoon,” 


_ Think of what can be done.” 


a clever fellow, I will undertake to 


492 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“Vou will read her a lecture while you are dancing ?” 

“ Ves, madame.”—-—“ You promise to convert her ?” 

“T will root out the heresy altogether, either by convincing her, or 
extreme measures.’ 

“ That is all right, then. Do not mix me up in the affair ; Madar 
would never forgive me in her life, and, as a mother-in-law, I ought tot 
and live on good terms with my daughter- in-law.” 

“The king, madame, will take all upon himself. But let me reflect.” 

“What about.” 

“It would be better, perhaps, if I were to go and see Madame in h 
own apartment.” 

“ Would that not seem a somewhat serious step to take ” 

“Ves; but seriousness is not unbecoming in preachers, and the mus 
of the ballet would drown one half of my arguments. Besides, the obje 
is to prevent any violent measures on my brother’s part, so that a litt 
precipitation may be advisable. Is Madame in her own apartment ?” 

“I believe so.’ 

“What is my statement of grievances to consist of ?” 

“In a few words, of the following : music uninterruptedly ; Guiche 
assiduity ; suspicions of treasonable plots and practices.” mi 

“ And the proofs ?” veLpere are nove. 

“Very well; I shall go at once to see Madame.” The king turned 
look in the mirrors at his costume, which was very rich, and his fac 
which was as radiant and sparkling as diamonds. “I suppose my broth 
is kept a little at a distance,” said the king. : 

“Fire and water cannot possibly be more opposite.” 

“That will do. Permit me, madame, to kiss your hands, the mo; 
beautiful hands in France.” 

‘“‘ May you be successful, sire,—be the family peace- -maker.” 

“T do not employ an ambassador, ”" said Louis: “which is as much a 
to say that I shall succeed.” He laughed as he left the room, and care 
fully dusted his dress as he went along. 


CHAPTER CVIIL 
THE MEDIATOR. 


WHEN the king made his appearance in Madame’s apartments, the cou 
tiers, whom the news of a conjugal misunderstanding had dispersed in th 
various apartments, began to entertain the most serious apprehensions. 4 
storm, too, was brewing in that direction, the elements of which the Cheve 
lier de Lorraine, in the midst of the different groups, was analysing wit 
delight, contributing to the weaker, and acting, according to his ow 
wicked designs, in such a manner with regard to the stronger, as to prc 
duce the most disastrous consequences possible. As Anne of Austria ha 
herself said, the presence of the king gave a solemn and serious characte 
to the event. Indeed, in the year 1662, the dissatisfaction of Monsiet 
with Madame, and the king’s intervention in the private affairs of Mor 
sieur, was a matter of no inconsiderable moment. 

The boldest, even, who had been the associates of the Comte de Guich: 
had, from the first moment, held aloof from him, with a sort of nervou 
apprehension ; ; and the Comte himself, infected by the general pani 
retired to his own apartments alone. The king entered Madame’s privat 
apartments, acknowledging and returning the salutations, as he was alway 


i 


THE MEDIATOR. 493 


in the habit of doing. The ladies of honour were ranged in a line on his 
passage along the gallery. Although his majesty was very much preoccu- 
pied, he gave the glance of a master at the two rows of young and beauti- 
ful girls, who modestly cast down their eyes, blushing as they felt the 
king’s gaze upon them. One only of the number, whose long hair fell in 
silken masses upon the most beautiful skin imaginable, was pale, and could 
hardly sustain herself, notwithstanding the knocks which her companion 
gave her with her elbow, It was La Valliére, whom Montalais supported 
in that manner, by whispering some of that courage to her with which she 
herself was so abundantly provided. The king could not resist turning 
round to look at them again. Their faces, which had already been raised, 
were again lowered, but the only fair head among them remained motion- 
less, as if all the strength and intelligence she had left, had abandoned 
ther. When he entered Madame’s room, Louis found his sister-in-law re- 
clining upon the cushions of her cabinet. She rose and made a profound 
reverence, murmuring some words of thanks for the honour she was re- 
ceiving. She then resumed her seat, overcome by a sudden weakness, 
which was no doubt assumed, for a delightful colour animated her cheeks, 
and her eyes, still red from the tears she had recently shed, never had 
more fire in them. When the king was seated, and as soon as he had re- 
‘marked, with that accuracy of observation which characterised him, the 
disorder of the apartment, and the no less great disorder of Madame’s 
countenance, he assumed a playful manner, saying, ‘‘ My dear sister, at 
what hour to-day would you wish the repetition of the dad/e¢ to take place ?” 

Madame, shaking her charming head, slowly and languishingly said: 

“ Ah! sire, will you graciously excuse my appearance at the repetition ; I 
was about to send to inform your majesty that I could not attend to-day.” 
“Indeed,” said the king in apparent surprise ; “are you not well ?” 
“No, sire.” 
“JT will summon your medical attendants, then.” 
“ No, for they can do nothing for my indisposition.” 
“You alarm me.” 
“ Sire, I wish to ask your majesty’s permission to return to England.” 
The king started. ‘Return to England,” he said, “ do you really say 
~what you mean ?” 

“T ‘say it reluctantly, sire,” replied the granddaughter of Henry IV., 
firmly, her beautiful black eyes flashing. “I regret to have to confide 
such matters to your majesty, but I feel myself too unhappy at your 
majesty’s court ; and I wish to return to my own family.” 

“ Madame, madame,” exclaimed the king as he approached her. 

“ Tisten to me, sire,” continued the young woman, cquiring by degrees 
that ascendancy over her interrogator which her beauty and her nervous 
nature conferred ; “young as I am, I have already suffered humiliation, 
and have endured disdain here. Oh! do not contradict me, sire,” she said 
with a smile. The king coloured. 

| “Then,” she continued, “I have reasoned myself into the belief that 
Heaven had called me into existence with that object, I, the daughter of 
a powerful monarch ; that since my father had been deprived of life, 
| Heaven could well smite my pride. 1 have suffered greatly ; I have been 
the cause, too, of my mother suffering much; but | have sworn that if 
Providence had ever placed me in a position of independence, even were 
it that of a workwoman of the lower classes, who gains her bread by her 
labour, I would never suffer humiliation again. That day has now arrived ; 
I have been restored to the fortune due to my rank and to my birth ; I 


oe Igy Aine mvne 


494 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


have even ascended again the steps of a throne, and I thought that, 
allying myself with a French prince, I should find in him a relation, 
friend, an equal; but I perceive I have found only a master, and I rebe 
My mother shall know nothing of it ; you whom I respect, and whom I- 
love——” The king started; never had any voice so gratified his ear. | 
“You, sire, who know all, since you have come here ; you will, perhap 
understand me. If you had not come, I should have gone to you. I wis 
for permission to pass freely. I leave it to your delicacy of feeling 
exculpate and to protect me.” , 
“My dear sister,” murmured the king, overpowered by this bold attac’ 


c 


“have you reflected upon the enormous difficulty of the project you hay 
conceived >” 


“Sire, I do not reflect, I feel. Attacked, I instinctively repel the attacl 
nothing more.” : 

“Come, tell me what have they done to you?” said the king. 

The princess, it will have been seen, by this peculiarly feminin 
manceuvre, had escaped every reproach, and advanced on her side a f& 
more serious one ; from an accused, she became the accuser. It is an ir 
fallible sign of guilt ; but notwithstanding that, all women, even the lea: 
clever of the sex, invariably know how to derive some means of attainin 
success, ‘The king had forgotten that he had paid her a visit, in order t 
say to her, “What have you done to my brother?” and that he was re 
duced to saying to her, “ What have they done to you ?” | 

“What have they done to me,” replied Madame; “one must be | 
woman to understand it, sire.—they have made me weep ;” and, with on 
of her fingers, whose slenderness and perfect whiteness were unequalled 
she pointed to her brilliant eyes swimming in tears, and again began ti 
weep. 

“I implore you, my dear sister,” said the king, advancing to take he 
warm and throbbing hand, which she abandoned to him. | 

“In the first place, sire, I was deprived of the presence of my brother’. 
friend. The Duke of Buckingham was an agreeable, cheerful visitor, m1 
own countryman, who knew my habits—I will Say almost a companion, s¢ 
accustomed had we been to pass our days together, with our other friends 
upon the beautiful piece of water at St. James’s.” 

* But Villiers was in love with you.” : 

“A pretext! What does it matter,” she said seriously, “whether th 
duke was in love with me or not? Is a man in love so very dangerous fo 
me? Ah, sire, it is not sufficient for a man to love a woman.” And sh 
smiled so tenderly, and with so much archness, that the king felt his hear 
beat and throb within his breast, 

At all events, if my brother were jealous ”” interrupted the king. 

“Very well, I admit that is a reason ; and the duke was sent away 
accordingly.” ——“ No, not sent away.” 

“Driven away, expelled, dismissed, then, if you prefer it, sire. Oneo 
the first gentlemen of Europe was obliged to leave the court of the Kin 
of France, of Louis XIV., like a beggar, on account of a glance or a 


2 S 
bouquet. It was little worthy of the most gallant court. But forgive me, 


sire; I forgot that, in speaking thus, I am attacking your sovereig 
power.” 
“I assure you, my dear sister, it was not I who dismissed the Duke o} 
Buckingham ; I was very charmed with him,” ) 
“It was not you?” said Madame; “ ah, so much the better !” and she 


emphasised the “so much the better” as if she had instead said, “so 
much the worse,” 


THE MEDIATOR. A9S 


few minutes’ silence ensued. She then resumed : “ The Duke of 
<ingham having left, I now know why, and by whose means. 
ght I should have recovered my tranquillity ; but not at all, for all at 
~ Monsieur finds another pretext—all at once——” | 
All at once,” said the king, playfully, “ some one else presents himself. 
but natural ; you are beautiful, and will always meet with those who 
love you.” 
In that case,” exclaimed the princess, “ T shall create a solitude around 
‘which indeed seems to be what is wished, and what is being prepare 
ne ; but no, I prefer to return to London. There I am known and 
veciated ; I shall have friends, without fearing they may be regarded 
ay lovers. Shame! it is a disgraceful suspicion, and unworthy a gentle- 
i. Monsieur has lost everything in my estimation, since he has shown 
he can be the tyrant of a woman.” 

Nay, nay ; my brother's only fault is that of loving you.” 

‘Love me! Monsieur love me ! Ah, sire ;” and she burst out laughing. 
onsieur will never love any woman,” she said ; “ Monsieur loves him- 
too much. No, unhappily for me, Monsieur’s jealousy is of the worst 
d—he is jealous without love.” ‘ 

Confess, however,” said the king, who began to be excited by this 
ied and animated conversation—“ confess that Guiche loves you.” 
Ah, sire, I know nothing about that.” 

‘You must have perceived it ; a man who loves readily betrays himself.” 
‘M. de Guiche has not betrayed himself.” 

‘My dear sister, you are defending M. de Guiche.” 

‘T, indeed! Ah, sire, I only needed a suspicion from yourself to com- 
te my wretchedness,” 
“No, madame, no,” returned the king, hurriedly ; “do not distress 
arself—nay, you are weeping. I implore you to calm yourself.” 

3he wept, however, and large tears fell upon her hands. The king took 
2 of her hands in his, and kissed the tears away. She looked at him so 
lly, and with so much tenderness, that he felt his heart throb under her 
Ze. 
“You have no kind of feeling, then, for Guiche ?” he said, more dis- 
sped than became his character of mediator. 

“ None, absolutely none.” 

“Then I can reassure my brother in that respect fo 
* Nothing will satisfy him, sire. Do not believe he is jealous; Monsieur 


ss been badly advised by some one, and he is of an anxious disposition.” 
“ He may well be so when you are concerned,” said the king. 

‘Madame cast down her eyes, and was silent ; the king did so likewise, 
ll holding her hand all the while. His momentary silence seemed to 
st an age. Madame gently withdrew her hand, and from that moment 
e felt her triumph was certain, and that the field of battle was her own. 
“ Monsieur complains,” said the king, “that you prefer the society of 
jvate individuals to his own conversation and society.” 

‘“ But Monsieur passes his life in looking at his face in the glass, and in 
otting all sorts of spiteful things against women with the Chevalier de 
orraine.” 

‘© Oh, you are going somewhat too far.” ; 

“T only say what is the fact. Do you observe for yourself, sire, and you 
ill see that I am right.” p 

-«T will observe ; but, in the meantime, what satisfaction can I give my 
rother ?»-—“ My departure.” 


\ 


496 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“You repeat that word !” exclaimed the king, imprudently, as if, durir| 
the last ten minutes, such a change had been produced that Madan 
would have had all her ideas on the subject thoroughly changed. 
“Sire, I cannot be happy here any longer,” she said. “ M. de Guic 
annoys Monsieur ; will he be sent away too?” es 

“If it be necessary, why not?” replied the king, smiling. 

“ Well, and after M. de Guiche—whom, by the bye, I shall regret— 
warn you, sire.” 

“ Ah, you will regret him ?” ' 

“Certainly ; he is amiable, he has a great friendship for me, and ] 
amuses me.” ; : : 

“If Monsieur were only to hear you,” saic the king, slightly annoye 
“do you know, I would not undertake to make it up again between yo 
nay, I would not even attempt it.” hea 

“Sire, can you, even now, prevent Monsieur from being jealous of tl 
first person who may approach? I know very well that M. de Guiche: 
not the first.” eae 

“ Again, I warn you that, as a good brother, I shall take a dislike 
De Guiche.” q 

“Ah, sire, do not, I entreat you, adopt either the sympathies or the di 
likes of Monsieur. Remain the king; far better for yourself and for eve} 
one else.” 

“You jest most charmingly, madame ; and I can well understand h 
those whom you attack must adore you.” 

“A d is that the reason why you, sire, whom I had regarded as 
defender, are about to join those who persecute me?” said Madame. 

“I your persecutor! Heaven forbid !” 

“Then,” she continued, languishingly, “grant me a favour.” 

“Whatever you wish.” “Let me return to England.” 

“Never, never !” exclaimed Louis XIV. ‘“‘T am a prisoner, then ?” 

“In France, yes.” ——“ What must I do, then ?” | 

“T will tell you. Instead of devoting yourself to friendships which a 
somewhat unsuitable, instead of alarming us by your retirement, rema 
always in our society, do not leave us, let us live as a united family. 1] 
te Guiche Is certainly very amiable ; but if, at least, we do not posse 

ib wit 

“Ah, sire, you know very well that you are pretending to be modest.” 

“ No, I swear to you. One may be aking, and yet feel that he posses 
fewer chances of pleasing than many other gentlemen.” 

‘I am sure, sire, that you do not believe a single word you are saying 

The king looked at Madame tenderly, and said, “ Will you prom 
me one thing ??>—-—“ What is it ?” 

“That you will no longer waste upon strangers, in your own apartmen 
the time which you owe us. Shall we make an offensive and defensi 
alliance against the common enemy ?” 

“An alliance? With you, sire?” 

“Why not? Are you not a sovereign power ?” 

“ But are you, sire, a very faithful ally ?” 

“You shall see, madame.” 

“ And when shall this alliance commence ?——* This very day.” 

4 I will draw up the treaty, and you shall sign it..——* Blindly.” 

Then, sire, I promise you wonders ; you are the star of the court, a 
when you make your appearance everything will be resplendent.” ) 
Oh, madame, madame,” said Louis XIV., “you know well that the 


— 


THE MEDIATOR. 497 


(> brilliancy which does not proceed from yourself, and that if I assume 
isun as my device, it is only an emblem.” 

Sire, you flatter your ally, and you wish to deceive her,” said Madame, 
patening the king with her finger raised menacingly. 

What! you believe I am deceiving you, when I assure you of my 
ction ?” cay ae 

What makes you so suspicious ?’——“ One thing.” 

What is it? I shall indeed be unhappy if I do not overcome it.” 
That one thing in question, sire, is not in your power, not even in the 
ver of Heaven.” 

Tell me what it is ?,-—“ The past.” 

I do not understand, madame,” said the king, precisely because he_had 
.erstood her but too well. 

‘he princess took his hand in hers. “Sire,” she said, “T have had the 
fortune to displease you for so long a period, that I have almost the 
it to ask myself to-day why you were able to accept me asa sister-in- 
» 


‘Displease me! You have displeased me 2” 

‘Nay, do not deny it, for I remember it well.” 

!Our alliance shall date from to-day,” exclaimed the king, with a 
-mth that was not assumed. ‘“ You will not think any more of the past, 
| you? I myself am resolved that I will not. I shall always remember 
_ present ; I have it before my eyes: look.” And he led the princess 
ore a mirror, in which she saw herself reflected, blushing and beautiful 
»ugh to overcome a saint. 

‘It is all the same,” she murmured, “it will not be a very worthy alliance.” 
“Must I swear ?” inquired the king, intoxicated by the voluptuous turn 
: whole conversation had taken. 

‘Oh, I do not refuse a good oath,” said Madame, “it has always the 
nblance of security.” 

The king knelt upon a footstool, and took hold of Madame’s hand. She, 
ch a smile that a painter could not succeed in depicting, and which a 
et only could imagine, gave him both her hands, in which he hid his 
ming face. Neither of them could utter a syllable. The king felt 
adame withdraw her hands, caressing his face while she did so. He 
se immediately and left the apartment. The courtiers remarked his 
ightened colour, and concluded that the scene had been a stormy one. 
ie Chevalier de Lorraine, however, hastened to say, “ Nay, be comforted, 
ntlemen, his majesty is always pale when he is angry.” 


CHAPTER CIX. 
THE ADVISERS. 


t 

qe king left Madame in a state of agitation which it would have been 
cult even for himself to have explained. It is impossible, in fact, to 
plain the secret play of those strange sympathies, which suddenly, and 
parently without any cause, are excited, after many years passed in the 
satest calmness and indifference, by two hearts destined to love each 
aer. Why had Louis formerly disdained, almost hated, Madame? Why 
4 he now find the same woman so beautiful, so captivating? And why, 
st only were his thoughts occupied about her, but still more, why were 
ey so occupied about her? Why, in fact, had Madame, whose eyes and 
ind were sought for in another direction, shown during the last week to- 

32 


498 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


wards the king a semblance of favour, which encouraged the belief of sti 
greater regard. It must not be supposed that Louis proposed to himse 
any plan of seduction ; the tie which united Madame to his brother wa 
or at least seemed for him, an insuperable barrier ; he was even too fe 
removed from that barrier to perceive its existence. But on the downwar 
path of those passions in which the heart rejoices, towards which yout 
impels us, no one can decide where to stop, not even he who has in ac 
vance calculated all the chances of his own success or of another’s sul 
mission. As far as Madame was concerned, her regard for the king ma 
easily be explained: she was young, a coquette, and ardently fond « 
admiration. Hers was one of those buoyant, impetuous natures, whic 
upon a theatre would leap over the greatest obstacles to obtain an acknoy 
ledgment of applause from the spectators. It was not surprising, the: 
that, after having been adored by Buckingham, by De Guiche, who wz 
superior to Buckingham, even if it were only from that great merit, so mu¢ 
appreciated by women, that is to say, novelty—it was not surprising, v 
say, that the princess should raise her ambition to being admired by tl 
king, who not only was the first person in the kingdom, but was one | 
the handsomest and wittiest men in it. As for the sudden passion wi: 
which Louis was inspired for his sister-in-law, physiology would perhaj 
supply the explanation of it by some hackneyed common-place reasor. 
and nature from some of her mysterious affinity of characters. Madan 
had the most beautiful black eyes in the world : Louis, eyes as beautif 
but blue. Madame was laughter-loving and unreserved in her manner, 
Louis, melancholy and diffident.. Summoned to meet each other, for t. 
first time, upon the grounds of interest and common curiosity, these ty 
opposite natures were mutually influenced by the contact of their 1 
ciprocal contradictions of character. Louis, when he returned to his oy 
rooms, acknowledged to himself that Madame was the most attract 
woman of his court. Madame, left alone, delightedly thought that she h, 
made a great impression on the king. This feeling with her must rema 
passive, whilst the king could not but act with all the natural vehemen 
of the heated fancies of a young man, and of a young man who has but 
express a wish, to see his wishes executed. 

The first thing the king did was to announce to Monsieur that evet 
thing was quietly arranged ; that Madame had the greatest respect, t 
sincerest affection for him; but that she was of a proud, impetuo 
character, and that her susceptibilities were so acute as to require a ve 
careful management. 

Monsieur replied in the sour tone of voice he generally adopted _wi 
his brother, that he could not very well understand the susceptibiliti 
of a woman whose conduct might, in his opinion, expose her to ce¢ 
sorious remarks, and that if any one had a right to feel wounded, it w 
he, Monsieur himself. To this the king replied in a quick tone of voy 
which showed the interest he took in his sister-in-law, “ Thank heave 
Madame is above censure.” | 

‘The censure of others, certainly, I admit,” said Monsieur, “ but r 
above mine, I presume.” | 

“Well,” said the king, “all I have to say, Philip, is, that Madam 
conduct does not deserve your censure. She certainly is heedless a 
singular, but professes the best feelings. The English character is 1 
always well understood in France, and the liberty of English mann 
sometimes surprises those who do not know the extent to which this libe: 
is enriched by innocence.” | 


THE ADVISERS. 469 

1” said Monsieur, more and more piqued, “ from the very moment 
‘ur majesty absolves my wife, whom I accuse, my wife is not guilty, 
vave nothing more to say.” 
‘ilip,” replied the king hastily, for he felt the voice of conscience 
iring softly in his heart that Monsieur was not altogether wrong, 
‘I have done, and what I have said, was only for your happiness. 
cold that you complained of a want of confidence or attention on 
‘ne’s part, and I did not wish your uneasiness to be prolonged any 

It is part of my duty to watch over your household, as over that 
aumblest of my subjects. I have seen therefore with the sincerest 
re that your apprehensions have no foundation.” 
d,’ continued Monsieur, in an interrogative tone of voice, and fixing 
ss upon his brother, “what your majesty has discovered for Madame 
‘I bow myself to your majesty’s superior judgment—have you also 
Jit for those who have been the cause ef the scandal of which | 
vin ?” 
mu are right, Philip,” said the king : “I will consider that point.” 
se words comprised an order as well as a consolation ; the prince 
to. be so, and withdrew. As for Louis, he went to seek his mother, 
felt that he had need of a more complete absolution than that he 
st received from his brother. Anne of Austria did not entertain 
‘de Guiche the same reasons for indulgence she had had for Buck- 
n. She perceived, at the very first words he pronounced, that Louis 
‘ot disposed to be severe, as she was indeed. It was one of the 
zems of the good queen, in order to succeed in ascertaining the 
' But Louis was no longer in his apprenticeship; already for more 
, year past he had been king, and during that year he had learned 
ydissemble. Listening to Anne of Austria, in order to permit her 
slose her own thoughts, testifying his approval only by look and 
sture, he became convinced, from certain profound glances, and 
-ertain skilful insinuations, that the queen, so clear-sighted in mat- 
‘ gallantry, had, if not guessed, at least suspected, his weakness for 
me, Of all his auxiliaries, Anne of Austria would be the most im- 
it to secure : of all his enemies, Anne of Austria would have been 
ost dangerous. Louis therefore changed his manceuvres. Hecom- 
‘d of Madame, absolved Monsieur, listened to what his mother had 
- of De Guiche, as he had previously listened to what she had had to 
* Buckingham, and then, when he saw that she thought she had 
1a complete victory over him, he left her. The whole of the court, 
; to say, all the favourites and more intimate associates, and they 
qumerous, since there were already five masters, were assembled in 
‘ening for the repetition of the ballet. This interval had been oc- 
1 by poor De Guiche in receiving visits. Among the number was 
hich he hoped and feared nearly to an equal extent. It was that ef 
thevalier de Lorraine. About three o’clock in the afternoon the 
lier entered De Guiche’s rooms. His looks were of the most assuring 
ster. “Monsieur,” said he to De Guiche, “was in an excellent 
ur, and no one could say that the slightest cloud had passed across the 
zal sky. Besides, Monsieur was not one to bear ill-feeling.” 
a very long time past, during his residence at the court, the Cheva- 
e Lorraine had decided, that of Louis the Thirteenth’s two sons, 
jeur was the one who had inherited the father’s character—an uncer- 
‘resolute character ; impulsively good, evilly disposed at bottom ; but 
nly a cypher for his friends. He had especially cheered De Guiche 

32—2 


500 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


by pointing out to him that Madame would, before long, succeed i 
governing her husband, and _ that, consequently, that man would goverr 
Monsieur who should succeed in influencing Madame. To this, De Guiche; 
full of mistrust and presence of mind, had replied, “ Yes, chevalier ; but | 
believe Madame to be a very dangerous person.” 

“Tn what respect ?” ; aire | 

“She has perceived that Monsieur is not very passionately inclined to: 
wards women.” 

“Quite true,” said the Chevalier de Lorraine, laughing. 

“In that case, Madame will choose the first one who approaches, ir 
order to make him the object of her preference, and to bring back he: 
husband by jealousy.” “Deep ! deep !” exclaimed the chevalier. 

“But true,” replied De Guiche. But neither the one nor the other ex 
pressed his real thought. De Guiche, at the very moment he thus attackec 
Madame’s character, mentally asked her forgiveness from the bottom o 
his heart. The chevalier, while admiring De Guiche’s penetration, lec 
him, blindfolded, to the brink of the precipice. De Guiche then questionec 
him more directly upon the effect produced by the scene of that morning 
and upon the still more serious effect produced by the scene at dinner. 

“But I have already told you they are all laughing at it,” replied thi 
Chevalier de Lorraine, “ and Monsieur himself at the head of them.” 

“ Yet,” hazarded De Guiche, “I have heard that the king paid Madam: 
a visit.” 

“Yes, precisely so. Madame was the only one who did not laugh, anc 
the king went to her in order to make her laugh too.”—-—“ So that 7 

“So that nothing is altered in the arrangements of the day,” said thi 
chevalier. | 

“And is there a repetition of the ballet this evening ?” 

“¢ Are you sure ?»-—“‘ Quite so,” returned the chevalier. 

At this moment of the con ersation between the two young men, Rao 
entered, looking full of anxiety. As soon as the chevalier, who had a secr 
dislike for him, as for every other noble character, perceived him enter, 
rose from his seat. 

“What do you advise me to do, then?” inquired De Guiche of t 
chevalier. 

“T advise you to go to sleep with perfect tranquillity, my dear comte.’ 

“ And my advice, De Guiche,” said Raoul, “is the very opposite.” 

“ What is that ?” 

“To mount your horse and set off at once for one of your estates ; 
your arrival, follow the chevalier’s advice, if you like ; and, what is mo 
you can sleep there as long and as tranquilly as you please.’ 

“What! set off!” exclaimed the chevalier, feigning surprise ; 
should De Guiche set off ?” 

“ Because, and you cannot be ignorant of it—you particularly so—b 
cause everyone is talking about the scene which has passed betwe 
‘Monsieur and De Guiche.” De Guiche turned pale. 

“Not at all,” replied the chevalier, “not at all, and you have been wrong] 
informed, M. de Bragelonne.” | 

“T have been perfectly well informed, on the contrary, monsieur,” replie: 
Raoul, “and the advice I give De Guiche is that of a friend.” i\ 

During this discussion, De Guiche, somewhat shaken, looked alternatel 
first at one and then at the other of his advisers. He inwardly felt that | 
game, important in all its consequences for the rest of his life, was bein 
played at that moment, 


“ Certainly.” 


- -= 


THE ADVISERS, 


sit not the fact,” said the chevalier, putting the qué 
If, “is it not the fact, De Guiche, the scene was not 
: Vicomte de Bragelonne seems to think, and who, mo 
mself there : 

Thether tempestuous or not,” persisted Raoul, “it is not precisely 
‘ene itself that I am speaking, but of the consequences that ma 
. I know that Monsieur has threatened, and I know that Madame 
2en in tears.” 

(adame in tears !” exclaimed De Guiche, imprudently clasping his 


h !” said the chevalier, laughing, “this is indeed a circumstance I 
ot acquainted with. You are decidedly better informed than I am, 
ieur de Bragelonne.” 

nd it is because I am better informed than yourself, chevalier, that I 
upon De Guiche leaving.” 

o, no ; I regret to differ from you, vicomte ; but his departure is un- 
sary. . Why, indeed, should he leave ? tell us why ?” 

he king !’——“ The king !” exclaimed De Guiche. 

es ; I tell you the king has taken up the affair.” 

ah™” said the chevalier, “ the king likes De Guiche, and particularly 
ther ; reflect, that, if the comte were to leave, it would be an admis- 
hat he had done something which merited rebuke.” 

"hy so?” 

‘o doubt of it ; when one runs away, it is either from guilt or from 
r, because a man is offended ; because he is wrongfully accused,” 
‘ragelonne. “ We will assign as a reason for his departure, that he 
qurt and injured—nothing will be easier ; we will say that we both 
ar utmost to keep him, and you, at least, will not be speaking other- 
han the truth. Come, De Guiche, you are innocent, and, being so, 
ene of to-day must have wounded you. So set off.” _ 

0, De Guiche, remain where you are,” said the chevalier ; “ precisely 
de Bragelonne has put it, because you are innocent. Once more, 
me, vicomte ; but my opinion is the very opposite to your own.” 
nd you are at perfect liberty to maintain it, monsieur ; but be assured 
he exile which De Guiche will voluntarily impose upon himself will 
sshort duration. He can terminate it whenever he pleases, and, re- 
‘g from his voluntary exile, he will meet with smiles from all lips ; 
on the contrary, the anger of the king may draw down a storm upon 
ad, the end of which no one can foresee.” ; 

> chevalier smiled, and murmured to himself, “ That is the very thing 
1.” And at the same time he shrugged his shoulders, a movement 
did not escape the comte, who dreaded, if he quitted the court, to 
to yield to a feeling of fear. 

io, no ; I have decided, Bragelonne, I stay.” 

prophesy, then,” said Raoul, sadly, “that misfortune will befall you, 
aiche.” 

too, am a prophet, but not a prophet of evil ; on the contrary, comte, 
to you, remain.” in 

re you sure,” inquired De Guiche, “that the repetition of the ballet 
kes place ?”>——“ Quite sure.” : 
fell, you see, Raoul,” continued De Guiche, endeavouring to smile, 
see the court is not so very sorrowful, or so readily disposed for in- 
‘dissensions, when dancing is carried on with such assiduity. Come, 


OMTE DE BRACELONNE. 


said the comte to Raoul, who shook his head, saying, 
© to add.” 
mquired the chevalier, curious to learn whence Raoul had ob- 
Mis information, the exactitude of which he was inwardly forced te 
hit, “since you say you are well informed, vicomte, how can you be 
etter informed than myself, who am one of the prince’s most intimate 
companions ?” 

‘To such a declaration I submit. You certainly ought to be perfectly 
well informed, I admit ; and, as a man of honour is incapable of saying 
anything but what he knows to be true, or of speaking otherwise than what 
he thinks, I shall say no more, but confess myself defeated, and leave you 
in possession of the field of battle.” 

Whereupon Raoul, who now seemed only to care to be left quiet, threw 
himself upon a large couch, while the comte summoned his servants to aic 
him in dressing. The chevalier, finding that time was passing away 
wished to leave ; but he feared, too, that Raoul, left alone with De Guiche 
might yet influence him to change his resolution. He therefore made us¢ 
of his last resource. ; 

“ Madame,” he said, “will be brilliant ; she appears to-day in her cos: 
tume of Pomona.” at : 

“Ves, that is so,” exclaimed the Comte. 

“ And she has just given directions in consequence,” continued the ch 
lier. ‘You know, Monsieur de Bragelonne, that the king is to appea 
Spring.” 

“Tt will be admirable,” said De Guiche ; “and that is a better reas 
for me to remain than any you have yet given, because I am to appear a 
Autumn, and shall have to dance with Madame. I cannot absent mysel 
without the king’s orders, since my departure would interrupt the ballet.” 

“T,.” said the chevalier, “am to be only asimple £gyfaz ,; true it is, I ar 
a bad dancer, and my legs are not well made. Gentlemen, adieu. Do no’ 
forget the basket of fruit, which you are to offer to Pomona, comte.” 

‘““Be assured,” said De Guiche, delightedly, “I shall forget nothing.” 

“T am now quite certain that he will remain,’ murmured the Chevalier 
de Lorraine to himself. 

Raoul, when the chevalier had left, did not even attempt to dissuade his 
friend, for he felt that it would be trouble thrown away ; he merely ob- 
served to the comte, in his melancholy and melodious voice, “ You are 
embarking in a most dangerous enterprise. I know you well: you go tc 
extremes in everything, and she whom you love does so too. Admitting 
for an instant that she should at last love you ‘ ) 

“Oh, never !” exclaimed De Guiche.——“‘ Why do you say never °” 

“ Because it would bea great misfortune for both of us.” 

“In that case, instead of regarding you as simply imprudent, I cannot 
but consider you as absolutely mad.” —-—“ Why ?” 

“ Are you perfectly sure, mind, answer me frankly, that you do not wish 
her whom you love to make any sacrifice for you ?” 

rfoVes, yesu quite sure.” 

“Love her then at a distance.”——“‘ What ! at a distance !” 

“Certainly ; what matters being present or absent, since you expect 
nothing from her. Love a portrait, a remembrance.”—-—“ Raoul !” 

“Love a shadow, an illusion, a chimera; be devoted to th- affection 
itself, in giving a name to your ideality.,.-—“ Ah !” 

“You turn away; your servants approach; I shall saynomore, Ir 
good or bad fortune, De Guiche, depend upon me.” 


THE ADVISERS. 503 


leed I shail do so.” 
ry well; that is all I had to say to you. Spare no pains in your 
, De Guiche, and look your very best. Adieu.” . 
u will not be present then at the repetition, vicomte ?” 
9; I shall have a visit to pay in town. Farewell, De Guiche.” 
reception was to take place in the king’s apartments. In the first 
there were the queens, then Madame, and a few ladies of the court 
ad been selected. A great number of courtiers, also care‘ully 
.d, occupied the time before the dancing commenced, in conversing, 
ple knew how to converse in those times. None of the ladies who 
ceived invitations appeared in the costumes of the _/é¢e, as the Cheva- 
Lorraine had predicted, but many conversations took place about 
h and ingenious toilettes designed by different painters for the ballet 
he Demi-Gods,” for thus weretermed the kings and queens, of which 
inebleau was about to become the Pantheon. Monsieur arrived, 
g in his hand a drawing representing his character ; he looked some~ 
anxious ; he bowed courteously to the young queen and his mother, 
luted Madame almost cavalierly. His notice of her and his cold- 
f manner were observed by all. M. de Guiche indemnified the 
ss by a look of passionate devotion, and it must be admitted that 
me, as she raised her eyes, returned it to him with usury. It is un- 
onable that De Guiche had never looked so handsome, for Madame’s 
: had had the effect of lighting up the features of the son of the 
ial de Grammont. The king’s sister-in-law felt a storm mustering 
her head ; she felt, too, that, during the whole of the day, so fruit- 
future events, she had acted unjustly, if not treasonably, towards one 
oved her with such a depth of devotion. In her eyes the moment 
d to have arrived for an acknowledgment tothe poor victim of the 
ce of the morning. Her heart spoke, and murmured the name of De 
e; the comte was sincerely pitied, and accordingly gained the vic- 
ver all others. Neither Monsieur, nor the king, nor the Duke of 
ngham, was any longer thought of ; and De Guiche at that moment 
without a rival. But although Monsieur also looked very handsome, 
> could not be compared to the comte. It is well known—indeed 
men say so—that a very wide difference invariably exists between 
ood looks of a lover and those of a husband. Besides, in the pre- 
ase, after Monsieur had left, and after the courteous and affectionate 
aition of the young queen and of the queen-mother, and the careless 
idifferent notice of Madame, which all the courtiers had remarked ; 
sse motives gave the lover the advantage over the husband. Monsieur 
0 great a personage to notice these details. Nothing is so certain as 
/ settled idea of superiority to prove the inferiority of the man who 
at opinion of himself. The king arrived. Every one looked for 
might possibly happen, in the glance which began to bestir the 
, like the brow of Jupiter Zozazs. Louis had none of his brother’s 
iiness, but was perfectly radiant. Having examined a greater part 
: drawings which were displayed for his inspection on every side, he 
his opinion or made his remarks upon them, and in this manner 
red some happy and others unhappy by a single word. Suddenly, his 
e, which was smilingly directed towards Madame, detected the silent 
spondence which was established between the princess andi the 
> He bit his lip, but when he opened them again to utter a few 
1on-place remarks, he said, advancing towards the queens :— 
have just been informed that everything is now prepared at Fontaine- 


504 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


bleau, in accordance withmy directions.” A murmur of satisfaction aros 
from the different groups,and the king perceived on every face the greate: 
anxiety to receive an invitation for the fé¢es. “I shall leave to-morrow 
he added. Whereupon the profoundest silence immediately ensuec 
“ And I invite,” saidthe king, finishing, “ all those who are now present t 
get ready to accompany me.” ) 

Smiling faces were now everywhere visible, with the exception of Mor 
sieur, who seemed to retain his ill-humour. The different noblemen an 
ladies of the court thereupon defiled before the king, one after the othe 
in order to thank his majesty for the great honour which had been cor, 
ferred upon them by the invitation. When it came to De Guiche’s tur 
the king said, ““Ah! M. de Guiche, I did not see you.” | 

The Comte bowed, and Madame turned pale. De Guiche was about t 
open his lips to express his thanks, when the king said, “ Comte, this i 
the season for farming purposes in the country ; 1 am sure your tenant 
in Normandy will be glad to see you.” | 

The king, after this severe attack, turned his back to the poor comte 
whose turn it was now to become pale ; he advanced a few steps toward 
the king, forgetting that the king is never spoken to except in reply t 
questions addressed. ‘I have perhaps misunderstood your majesty,” g 
stammered out. The king turned his head slightly, and with a cold 
stern glance, which plunged like a sword relentlessly into the hearts 
those under disgrace, repeated, “‘I said retire to your estates,” and allo 
ing every syllable to fall slowly one by one. A cold perspiration bedew 
the comte’s face, his hands convulsively opened, and his hat, which h 
held between his trembling fingers, fell to the ground. Louis sought hi 
mother’s glance, as though to show her that he was master; he sough 
his brother’s triumphant look, as if to ask him if he were satisfied witl 
the vengeance taken ; and lastly, his eyes fell upon Madame ; but thi 
princess was laughing and smiling with Madame de Noailles. She hac 
heard nothing, or rather had pretended not to hear at all. The Chevalie 
de Lorraine looked on also, with one of those looks of settled hostility 
which seem to give to a man’s glance the power of a lever when 1 
raises an obstacle, wrests it away, and casts it toa distance. M. de Guich 
was left alone in the king’s cabinet, the whole of the company having de 
parted. Shadows seemed to dance before his eyes. He suddenly brok« 
through the fixed despair which overwhelmed him, and flew to hide him 
self in his own rooms, where Raoul awaited him, confident in his own sa¢ 
presentiments. 

“Well?” he murmured, seeing his friend enter, bareheaded, with a wil 
gaze and tottering gait. 

“Yes, yes, it is true,” said De Guiche, unable to utter more, and fallin 
exhausted upon the couch. 

“And she?” inquired Raoul. 

“She,” exclaimed his unhappy friend, as he raised his hand, clenche¢ 
in anger towards heaven. ‘ She !——” 

‘What did she say and do ?” 

“She said that her dress suited her admirably, and then she laughed.’ 
A fit of hysteric laughter seemed to shatter his nerves, for he fell back 
wards, completely overcome. 


FONTAINEBLEAU. , 505 


CHAPTER CX. 
: FONTAINEBLEAU. 


oR four days, every kind of enchantment brought together in the mag- 
ficent gardens of Fontainebleau, had converted this spot into a place of 
'e most perfect enjoyment. M. Colbert seemed gifted with ubiquity. In 
ié morning, there were the accounts of the previous night’s expenses to 
ttle ; during the day, programmes, essays, enlistments, payments. M. 
olbert had amassed four millions of francs, and dispersed them with a 
‘udent economy. He was horrified at the expenses which mythology 
volved ; every wood-nymph, every dryad, did not cost less than a hun- 
ed francs a day. The dress alone amounted to three hundred francs. 
ne expense of powder and sulphur for fireworks amounted, every night, 
-a hundred thousand francs. In addition to these, the illuminations on 
e borders of the sheet of water cost thirty thousand francs every even- 
2. The fétes had been magnificent ; and Colbert could not restrain his 
slight. From time to time, he noticed Madame and the king setting 
rth on hunting expeditions, or preparing for the reception of different 
ntastic personages, solemn ceremonials, which had been extemporised a 
tnight before, and in which Madame’s sparkling wit and the king’s 
agnificence were equally displayed. 
For Madame, the heroine of the /é¢e, replied to the addresses of the 
‘:putations from unknown races—Garamanths, Scythians, Hyperboreans, 
hucasians, and Patagonians, who seemed to issue from the ground for 
€ purpose of approaching her with their congratulations ; and upon 
ery representative of these races the king bestowed a diamond, or some 
her article of great value. Then the deputies, in verses more or less 
using, compared the king to the sun, Madame to Pheebe, the sun’s 
ster, and the queen and Monsieur were no more spoken of than if the 
ing had married Madame Henrietta of England, and not Maria Theresa 
Austria. The happy pair, hand in hand, imperceptibly pressing each 
her’s fingers, drank in deep draughts the sweet beverage of adulation, 


f which the attractions of youth, beauty, power, and love, are enhanced. 
very one at Fontainebleau was amazed at the extent of the influence 
aich Madame had so rapidly acquired over the king, and whispered 
tong themselves, that Madame was, in point of fact, the true queen ; 
.d, in effect, the king himself proclaimed its truth by his every thought, 
ord, and look. He formed his wishes, he drew his inspirations from 
adame’s eyes, and his delight was unbounded when Madame deigned 
smile upon him. And was Madame, on her side, intoxicated with the 
wer she wielded, as she beheld every one at her feet ?—This was a 
estion she herself could hardly answer ; but what she did know was, 
at she could frame no wish, and that she felt herself to be perfectly 
ppy. The result of all these changes, the source of which emanated 
om the royal will, was that Monsieur, instead of being the second person 
the kingdom, had, in reality, become the third. And it was now far 
se than in the time when De Guiche’s guitars were heard in Madame’s 
artments ; for, then, at least, Monsieur had the satisfaction of frighten- 
r those who annoyed him. Since the departure, however, of the enemy, 
10 had been driven away by means of his alliance with the king, Mon- 
ur had to submit to a burden, heavier, but in a very different sense, to 
; former one. Every evening, Madame returned home quite exhausted. 
orse-riding, bathing in the Seine, spectacles, dinners under the leafy 


506 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


covert of the trees, balls on the banks of the grand canal, concerts, etc., 
etc. ; all this would have been sufficient to have killed, not a slight and 
delicate woman, but the strongest porter in the chdteau. It is perfectly 
true, that, with regard to dancing, concerts, and promenades, and such 
matters, a woman is far stronger than the most robust porter of the 
chéteau. But, however great a woman’s strength may be, there is a limit 
to it, and she cannot hold out long under such asystem. As for Monsieur, 
he had not even the satisfaction of witnessing Madame’s abdication of 
her royalty in the evening, for she lived in the royal pavilion with the 
young queen and the queen-mother. As a matter of course, the Chevalier 
de Lorraine did not quit Monsieur, and did not fail to distil his drops of 
gall into every wound the latter received. The result was, that Monsieur 
—who had at first been in the highest spirits, and completely restored 
since Guiche’s departure—subsided into his melancholy state, three days 
after the court was installed at Fontainebleau. It happened, however, 
that one day, about two o’clock in the afternoon, Monsieur, who had risen 
late, and had bestowed upon his toilette more than his usual attention, it 
happened, we repeat, that Monsieur, who had not heard of any plans 
having been arranged for the day, formed the project of collecting his 
own court, and of carrying Madame off with him to Moret, where—he 
possessed a charming country house. He, accordingly, went to t 
queen’s pavilion, and was astonished, on entering, to find none of ti 
royal servants in attendance. Quite alone, therefore, he entered th | 
rooms, a door on the left opening to Madame’s apartment, the one on th. 
right to the young queen’s. In his wife’s apartment, Monsieur was in- 
formed, by a sempstress who was working there, that every one had left 
at eleven o’clock, for the purpose of bathing in the Seine, that a grand 
jéte was to be made of the expedition, that all the carriages had been 
placed at the park gates, and that they had all set out more than an 
hour ago. 

“Very good,” said Monsieur ; “ the idea is a good one. The heat is very 
oppressive, and I have no objection to bathe too.” 

He summoned his servants, but no one came. He summoned those in 
attendance on Madame, but everybody had gono out. He then went to 
the stables, where he was informed by a groom that there were no car- 
riages of any description. He then desired that a couple of horses should 
be saddled—one for himself, and the other for his valet. The groom told 
him that all the horses had been sent away. Monsieur, pale with anger, 
again descended towards the queen’s apartments, and penetrated as fara 
Anne of Austria’s oratory, where he perceived, through the half-opene 
tapestry-hangings, his young and beautiful sister on her knees before th 
queen-mother, who appeared weeping bitterly. He had not been eithe 
seen or heard. He cautiously approached the opening, and listened, th 
sight of so much grief having aroused his curiosity. Not only was th 
young queen weeping, but she was complaining also, “ Yes,’ she said, 
‘the king neglects me ; the king devotes himself to pleasures and amuse- 
ments only, in which I have no share.” 

“Patience, patience, my daughter,” said Anne of Austria, in Spanish ; 
and then, also in Spanish, added some words of advice, which Monsieur 
did not understand. The queen replied by accusations, mingled with 
sighs and sobs, among which Monsieur often distinguished the word danos, 
which Maria Theresa accentuated with spiteful anger. 

“The baths,” said Monsieur to himself, “it seems it is the baths that 
have put her out.” And he endeavoured to put together the disconnected 


FONTAINEBLEAU soy 


ases which he had been able to understand, It was easy to guess that 
. queen complained bitterly, and that, if Anne of Austria did not console 
she at least endeavoured to do so. Monsieur was afraid to be detected 
ening at the door, and he therefore made up his mind to cough ; the 
) queens turned round at the sound, and Monsieur entered. At the 
ht of the prince, the young queen rose precipitately, and dried her tears. 
ysieur, however, knew the people he had to deal with too well, and was 
‘urally too polite to remain silent, and he accordingly saluted them. 
e queen-mother smiled pleasantly at him, saying, “ What do you want, 


ilip ?” 

‘] ?—nothing,” stammered Monsieur ; “I was looking for——” 
‘Whom ?” 

‘I was looking for Madame.”——- “‘ Madame is at the baths.” 


‘And the king?” said Monsieur, in a tone which made the queen 
mble. 

‘The king also, and the whole court as well,” replied Anne of Austria. 
‘Except you, madame,” said Monsieur. 

‘Oh, I,” said the young queen—“ I seem to terrify all those who amuse 
mselves.” Anne of Austria made a sign to her daughter-in-law, who 
‘-hdrew, weeping. 

Monsieur’s brows contracted as he remarked aloud, “ What a cheerless 
use! What do you think of it, mother °” 

‘Why, no ; everybody here is pleasure-hunting.” 

‘Yes, indeed ; that is the very thing that makes those dull who do not 
‘e for pleasure.” 

“In what a tone you say that, Philip!” 

“Upon my word, madame, I speak as I think.” 

‘Explain yourself. What is the matter ?” 

“Ask my sister-in-law rather, who just now was detailing all her 
evances to you.” “ Her grievances! What——” 

“Yes, I was listening—accideatally, I confess, but still I listened ; so 
it I heard only too well my sister complain of those famous baths of 
adame——”——“ What folly !” 

“No, no, no; people are not always foolish when they weep. The 
een said Janos, which means baths.” 

“T repeat, Philip,” said Anne of Austria, “that your sister is most child- 
ly jealous.” 

“In that case, madame,” replied the prince, “I too must, with great 
mility, accuse myself of possessing the same defect as she has.” 

* You also, Philip ?,>——“ Certainly.” 

‘* Are you really jealous of these baths ?” 

‘ And why not, madame, when the king goes to the baths with my wil 
d does not take the queen? Why not, when Madame goes to the baths 
th the king, and does not do me the honour to tell me of it? And you 
juire my sister-in-law to be satisfied, and require me to be satisfied too.” 
“You are raving, my dear Philip,” said Anne of Austria ; “you have 
iven the Duke of Buckingham away ; you have been the cause of Mon- 
ur de Guiche’s exile ; do you now wish to send the king away from 
mtainebleau ?” 

“TI do not pretend to anything of the kind, madame,” said Monsieur, 
terly ; “but, at least, I can withdraw, and I shall do so.” 

“Jealous of the king—jealous of your brother ?” 

“Yes, madame, I am jealous of the king—of my own brother, and very 
alous too,” 


508 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“Really, Monsieur,” exclaimed Anne of Austria, affecting to be indi; 
nant and angry, “I begin to believe you are mad, and a sworn enemy | 
my repose. I therefore abandon the place to you, for I have no means: 
defending myself against such wild conceptions.” 

She arose and left Monsieur a prey to the most extravagant transport | 
passion. He remained fora moment completely bewildered ; then, recove 
ing himself, he again went to the stables, found the groom, once moi 
asked him for a carriage or a horse, and, upon his replying that there wz 
neither the one nor the other, Monsieur snatched a long whip from tk 
hand of a stable-boy, and began to pursue the poor devil of a groom 
round the servants’ courtyard, whipping him all the while, in spite of h 
cries and his excuses ; then, quite out of breath, covered with perspiratio 
and trembling in every limb, he returned to his own apartments, broke 
pieces some beautiful specimens of porcelain, and then got into bed, boot 
and spurred as he was, crying out for some one to come to him, 


Eee ae | 


CHAPTER CX, | 
THE BATH. a ateee: 


AT Valvins, beneath the impenetrable shade of flowering osiers and wi 
lows, which, as they bent down their green heads, dipped the extremitie 
of their branches in the blue waters, a long and flat-bottomed boat, wit 
ladders covered with long blue curtains, served as a refuge for the bathin 
Dianas, who, as they left the water, were watched by twenty plum 
Acteons, who, eagerly, and full of desire, galloped up and down the mos 
grown and perfumed banks of the river. But Diana herself, even t 
chaste Diana, clothed in her long chlamys, was less beautiful—less i 
penetrable, than Madame, as young and beautiful as that goddess herse 
For, notwithstanding the fine tunic of the huntress, her round and delica 
knee can be seen ; and, notwithstanding the sonorous quiver, her brow 
shoulders can be detected ; whereas, in Madame’s case, a long white ve 
enveloped her, wrapping her round and round a hundred times, as she re 
signed herself into the hands of her female attendants, and thus we 
rendered inaccessible to the most indiscreet, as well as to the most pene 
trating gaze. When she ascended the ladder, the poets who were prese 
—and all were poets when Madame was the subject of discussion—t 
wenty poets who were galloping about, stopped, and with one voice e 
aimed, that pearls, and not drops of water, were falling from her perso 
be lost again in the happy river. The king, the centre of these e 

ns, and of this respectful homage, imposed silence upon those expati 
iors, for whom it seemed impossible to exhaust their raptures, and he ro 
away, from fear of offending, even under the silken curtains, the modes 
of the woman and the dignity of the princess. A great blank thereup 
ensued in the scene, and a perfect silence in the boat. From the mov 
ments on board,—from the flutterings and agitations of the curtains,—th 
goings to and fro of the female attendants engaged in their duties, coul 
be guessed. 

The king smilingly listened to the conversation of the courtiers aroun 
him, but it could easily be perceived that he gave but little, if any, atter 
tion to their remarks. In fact, hardly had the sound of the rings draw 
along the curtain-rods announced that Madame was dressed, and that th 
goddess was about to make her appearance, than the king, returning to h 
former post immediately, and running quite close to the river-bank, gav 


THE BATH. 509 


the signal for all those to approach whose attendance or pleasure summoned 
them to Madame’s side. ‘he pages hurried forward, conducting the led 
horses ; the carriages, which had remained sheltered under the trees, 
advanced towards the tent, followed by a crowd of servants, bearers, and 
female attendants who, while their masters had been bathing, had mutu- 
ally exchanged their own observations, their critical remarks, and the dis- 
cussion of matters personal to themselves,—the fugitive journal of that 
period, of which no record is preserved, not even by the waters, the mirror 
of individuals, echoes of conversations, witnesses whom Heaven has hur- 
ried into immensity, as he has hurried the actors themselves into eternity. 
A crowd of people swarming upon the banks of the river, without reckon- 
ing the groups of peasants drawn together by their anxiety to see the king 
and the princess, was, for many minutes, the most disorderly, but the 
most agreeable, pell-mell imaginable. The king dismounted from his 
horse, a movement which was imitated by all the courtiers, and offered 
ais hand to Madame, whose rich riding-habit displayed her fine figure, 
which was set off to great advantage by that garment, made of fine woollen 
‘loth, embroidered with silver. Her hair, still damp and blacker than jet, 
aung in heavy masses upon her white and delicate neck. Joy and health 
sparkled in her beautiful eyes ; composed, and yet full of energy, she in- 
jaled the air in deep draughts, under the embroidered parasol, which was 
dorne by one of her pages. Nothing could be more charming, more graceful, 
more poetical, than these two figures buried under the rose-coloured shade 
of the parasol ; the king, whose white teetl. were displayed in continual 
\miles, and Madame, whose black eyes sparkled like two carbuncles in 
the glittering reflection of the changing hues of the silk. When Madame 
iad approached her horse, a magnificent animal of Andalusian breed, ef 
potless white, somewhat heavy, perhaps, but with a spirited and slender 


flood could be readily traced, and whose long tai! swept the ground ; and 
s the princess affected difficulty in mounting, the king took her in his 
rms in such a manner that Madame’s arm was clasped like a circlet of 
With his lips the arm, which was not withheld, and the princess having 
1anked her royal equerry, every one sprang to his saddle at the same 

oment. The king and Madame drew aside to allow the carriages, the 
jased from the restraint which etiquette had imposed upon them, gave 
te rein to their horses, and darted after the carriages which bore the 
aids of honour, as blooming as so many Oreades around Diana, and the 
\Shirlwind, laughing, chattering, and noisy, passed onward. 

The king and Madame, however, kept their horses in hand at a foot- 
face. Behind his majesty and his sister-in-law, certain of the courtiers— 
Fach, or under the eyes of the king—followed at a respectful distance, re- 
#raining their impatient horses, regulating their pace by that of the king 

d Madame, and abandoned themselves to all the delight and gratifica- 

ith perfect courtesy, make a thousand of the most atrocious remarks 
Wbout their neighbours. In their stifled laughter, and in the little reti- 

ences of their sardonic humour, Monsieur, the poor absentee, was not 
* must be confessed that their compassion, as far as he was concerned, 
tas not misplaced. The king and Madame having breathed their horses, 


fead, in which the mixture so happily combined of Arabian and Spanish 
re around the king’s neck; Louis, as he withdrew, involuntarily touched 
triders, and runners, to pass by. A fair proportion of the cavaliers, re- 
nose, at least, who were seriously disposed, or were anxious to be within 
Mon which is to be found in the conversation of clever people, who can, 
ared. But they pitied, and bewailed greatly, the fate of De Guiche; and 

1¢ 


510 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


and repeated a hundred times over such remarks as the courtiers, wh 
made them talk, had suggested to them, set off at a hand-ga!lop, and th 
shady coverts of the forest resounded to the heavy footfall of the mounte: 
party. To the conversations beneath the shade of trees,—to the remark 
made in the shape of confidential communications, and to the observa 
tions which had been mysteriously exchanged, succeeded the noisies 
bursts of laughter ;—from the very outriders to royalty itself, merrimer 
seemed to spread. Every one began to laugh and to cry out. The mag 
pies and the jays flew away, uttering their guttural cries, beneath th 
waving avenues of the oaks; the cuckoo stayed his monotonous cry 1 
the recesses of the forest ; the chaffinch and tomtit flew away in clouds. 
while the terrified fawn, and other deer, bounded forwards from the mids 
of the thickets. This crowd, spreading wildly joy, confusion and ligt 
wherever it passed, was preceded, it may be said, to the chateau by its ow 
clamour. As the king and Madame entered the village, they were bot! 
received by the general acclamations of the crowd. Madame hastene 
to look for Monsieur, for she instinctively understood that he had been fa 
too long kept from sharing in this joy The king went to rejoin the queens 
he knew he owed them—one especially—a compensation for his long ak 
sence. But Madame was not admitted to Monsieur’s apartments, and sh 
was informed that Monsieur was asleep. The king, instead of being me 
by Maria Theresa smiling, as was usual with her, found Anne of Austri 
in the gallery, watching for his return, who advanced to meet him, anc 
taking him by the hand, led him to her own apartment. No one ever kne’ 
what was the nature of the conversation which took place between then 
or rather what it was that the queen-mother had said to Louis X1V_ ; bt 
it certainly might easily be guessed from the annoyed expression of th 
king’s face as he left her after the interview. | 

But we, whose mission it is to interpret all things, as it is also to con 
municate our interpretations to our readers—we should fail in our dut 
if we were to leave them in ignorance of the result of this interview. . 
will be found sufficiently detailed—at least we hope so—in the followin 


chapter. 


CHAPTER CAIT ) 
THE BUTTERFLY-CHASE. 


THE king, on retiring to his apartments to give some directions and” 
arrange his ideas, found on his toilette-glass a small note, the handwritir 
of which seemed disguised. He opened it and read—* Come quickly, 
have a thousand things to say to you.” The king and Madame had n 
been separated a sufficiently long time for these thousand things to be tl 
result of the three thousand which they had been saying to each oth 
during the route which separated Valvins from Fontainebleau. The co 
fused and hurried character of the note gave the king a great deal to refle 
upon. He occupied himself but slightly with his toilette, and set off to pi 
his visit to Madame. The princess, who did not wish to have the a 
pearance of expecting him, had gone into the gardens with the ladies | 
her suite. When the king was informed that Madame had left her apai 
ments, and had gone for a walk in the gardens, he collected all the gent! 
men he could find, and invited them to follow him. He found Madan 
engaged in chasing butterflies, on a large lawn bordered with heliotro; 
and flowering broom. She was looking on, as the most adventurous a1 


22 DULTILRILY CHASE. 51t 


gest of her ladies ran to and fro, and with her back turned to a high 
€, very impatiently awaited the arrival of the king, to whom she had 
\ the rendezvous. The sound of many feet upon the gravel-walk made 
urnround, Louts XIV. was bareheaded ; he had struck down with his 
a peacock butterfly, which Monsieur de Saint-Aignan had picked up 
the ground quite stunned. 

Tou see, Madame,” said the king, as he approached her, “ that I, too, 
‘unting for you ;” and then, turning towards those who had accompa- 
him, said, “* Gentlemen, see if each of you cannot obtain as much for 
 Jadies,” a remark which was a signal for all to retire. And thereupon 
‘ious spectacle might be observed ; old and corpulent courtiers were 
‘running after butterflies, losing their hats as they ran, and with their 
d canes cutting down the myrtles and the furze, as they would have 
the Spaniards. 

e king offered Madame his arm, and they both selected, as the centre 
servation, a bench with a roofing of moss, a kind of hut roughly designed 
-e modest genius of one of the gardeners who had inaugurated the pictu- 
ie and the fanciful amid the formal style of gardening of that period. 
_ sheltered retreat, covered with nasturtiums and climbing roses, 
ned a bench, as it were, so that the spectators, insulated in the middle 
2 lawn, saw and were seen on every side, but could not be heard, 
ut perceiving those who might approach for the purpose of listening. 
od thus, the king made a sign of encouragement to those who were 
ing about ; and then, as if he were engaged with Madame in a disser- 
1 upon the butterfly, which he had thrust through with a gold pin and 
aed on his hat, said to her, “ How admirably we are placed here for 
srsation.” . 

7es, sire, for I wished to be heard by you alone, and yet to be seen 
very one” “And I also,” said Louis. 

“Ly note surprised you ?” 

errified me, rather But what I have to tell you is more important.” 
‘tcannot be, sire. Do you know that Monsieur refuses to see me ?” 
Nhy so ??———“ Can you not guess why ?” 

\h, Madame! in that case we have both the same thing to say to eac 
ia - 
Vhat has happened to you, then r” 

7ou wish me to begin ?>———“ Yes, for I have told you all.” 

Vell, then, as soon as I returned, I found my mother waiting for me, 
she led me away to her own apartments.” 

“he queen -mother ?” said Madame, with some anxiety, “ the matter is 
as, then?” 

indeed it is, for she told me .. . . but, in the first place, allow me to 
ce what I have to say with one remark. Has Monsieur ever spoken 
1 about me p?——§ Often.” 

tas he ever spoken to you about his jealousy ?” 

Jore frequently still.” 

/f his jealousy cf mez” | 

to, put of the duke of Buckingham and De Guiche.” 

Vell, Madame, Monsieut’s present idea is a jealousy of myself.” 
eally,” replied the princess, smiling archly. 

nd it really seems to me,” continued the king, “that we have never 
any ground——” 

et! at least I have not.’ But who told you that Monsieur was 
is? = 


512 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, — 


“ My mother represented to me that Monsieur entered her apartment 
like a madman, that he had uttered a thousand complaints against you, an 
—forgive me for saying it—against your coquetry. It appears that Mon 
sieur indulges in injustice, too.” . 

“ Vou are very kind, sire.” 

‘“‘ My mother reassured him ; but he pretended that people reassure hur 
too often, and that he had had quite enough of it.” 

“ Would it not be better for him not to make himself uneasy in any way ? 

‘The very thing I said.” 

“Confess, sire, that the world is very wicked. Is it possible that | 
brother and sister cannot converse together, or take pleasure in eacl 
other’s society, without giving rise to remarks and suspicions? for 
indeed, sire, we are doing no harm, and have no intention of doing any. 
And she looked at the king with that proud and provoking glance whicl 
kindles desire in the coldest and wisest of men. 

“ No!” sighed the king, “that is true.” 

“You know very well, sire, that if it were to continue, I should bi 
obliged to make a disturbance. Do you decide upon our conduct, an 
say whether it has, or has not, been perfectly correct.” | 

“Oh certainly, perfectly correct.” 

“ Often alone together,—for we delight in the same things, we migh 
possibly be led away into error, but have we done so? I regard you as ¢ 
brother, and nothing more.” The king frowned. She continued : 

‘*Your hand, which often meets my own, does not excite in me tha 
agitation and emotion which is the case with those who love each other 
for instance . F 

‘“‘ Enough,” said the king, “ enough, I entreat you. You have no pity— 
you are killing me.’ 

‘What is the matter ?” 

“Tn fact, then, you distinctly say you experience nothing when near me.’ 

“Oh, sire! I do not say that my affection a | 

“Enough, Henrietta, I again entreat you. If you believe me to be 
marble, as you are, undeceive yourself.” | 

“T do not understand you, sire.” 

“Very well,’ sighed the king, casting down his eyes. “And so ow 
meetings, the pressure of each other’s hand, the looks we have exchangec 
Yes, yes ; you are right, and I understand your meaning,” and he 
buried his face in his hands. | 

“Take care, sire,” said Madame, hurriedly, “ Monsieur de Saint-Aignar 
is looking at you.” | 

“Of course,” said Louis, angrily ; “never even the shadow of liberty! 
never any sincerity in my intercourse with any one! I imagine I have 
found a friend, who is nothing but a spy ;—a dearer friend, who is only 4 
Slavery. 

Madame was silent, and cast down her eyes. “My husband is jealous,’ 
she murmured in a tone of which nothing could equal its sweetness and 
its charm. 

“ You are right,” exclaimed the king, suddenly. ) 

“You see,” she said, looking at him in a manner that set his heart on 
fire, ‘you are free, you are not suspected, the peace of your house is not 
disturbed.” ) 
ey Alas !” said the king, “as yet you know nothing, for the queen is 
jealous. : 

** Maria Theresa !” Hr st atenitalaeenrns 


THE porrEere V-CHASR. 


Be. ter , 2 ; 

soca mad w ze aeovarat Monsiur's Jealousy arises f 
ping and complaining to my moter, and \y Tom hers . 

ose bathing parties, which have made me schanpy, » Proaching ys 

nd me too,” answered Madame by a look. ti 

Then, suddenly,” continued the king, “ Monsieur, - 

the word ‘ davos, which the queen pronounced with Was listening 

aess, that awakened his attention; he entered the re degree of 

-wild, broke into the conversation, and began to quarre:looking 

ar so bitterly, that she was obliged to leave him; so that, wh. ee 

-a jealous husband to deal with, I shall have perpetually pres: 

» me a spectre of jealousy with swollen eyes, a cadaverous face, anu 

ar looks.” 

oor king,” murmured Madame, as she lightly touched the king’s 

- He retained her hand in his, and, in order to pass it without ex- 

suspicion in the spectators, who were not so much taken up with 

atterflies that they could not occupy themselves about other matters, 

sho perceived clearly enough that there was some mystery in the 

and Madame’s conversation, Louis placed the dying butterfly before 

ster-in-law, and both bent over it as if to count the thousand eyes of 

ngs, or the particles of golden dust which covered it. Neither of 

spoke ; however, their hair mingled, their breath united, and their 

3 feverishly throbbed in each other's grasp. Five minutes passed by 

s manner. 


eo 


CHAPTER CXITI. 
WHAT WAS CAUGHT IN THE HAND AFTER THE BUTTERFLIES. 


two young people remained for a moment with their heads bent down, 
d, as it were, beneath the double thought of the love which was 
ging up in their hearts, and which gives birth to so many happy 
ss in the imaginations of twenty years of age. Madame Henrietta 
a side glance, from time to time, at the king. Hers was one of those 
‘ organised natures capable of looking inwardly at itself,as well as at 
's at the same moment. She perceived love lying at the bottom of 
? heart, as a skilful diver sees a pearl at the bottom of the sea. She 
‘Louis was hesitating, if not in doubt, and that his indolent or timid 
required aid and encouragement. * Consequently ?” she said, inter- 
ively, breaking the silence. 
Vhat do you mean?” inquired Louis, after a moment’s pause. 

mean, that I shall be obliged to return to the resolution I had 
ea.” 
“o what resolution ?” 
*o that which I have already submitted to your majesty.” ——“ When 2” 
Dn the very day we had a certain explanation about Monsieur’s 
usies.” 
Nhat did you say to me then?” inquired Louis, with some anxiety. 
Do you not remember, sire ?” 
\las ! if it be another cause of unhappiness, I shall recollect it soon 
gh.” 
\ cause of unhappiness for myself alone, sire,” replied Madame 
tietta ; “ but as it is necessary, I must submit to it.” 
\t least, tell me what it is,” said the king.——“ Absence.” 
3till that unkind resolve ?” 


33 


A yg 

e14 THE VICOMTE 1" praGRLONNE. 

“ Believe me, Sire, I have T° formed it without a violent struggle witl 
myself; it is absolutely Hssary I should return to England.” 

“‘ Never, never wil Jermit you to leave France,” exclaimed the king. 

“And yet, sire; .d Madame, affecting a gentle yet sorrowful deter 
mination, “ nothy is more urgently necessary ; nay, more than that, I an 

ersuaded it your mother’s desire I should do so.” 


. 


“ Desire exclaimed the king; “that is a very strange expression t 
se tow.” 

“ll,” replied Madame Henrietta, smilingly, “are you not happy i 

wmitting to the wishes of so good a mother ?” 

“ Enough, I implore you ; you rend my very soul.” eve 

“| »—_“Yes ; for you speak of your departure with tranquillity.” 

“J was not born for happiness, sire,” replied the princess, dejectedly 
“and I acquired, in very early life, the habit of seeing my dearest thought: 
disappointed.” : 

“ Do you speak truly ?’ said the king. “ Would your departure gainsa; 
any one of your cherished thoughts ?” 

“Tf I were to say ‘yes,’ would you begin to take your misfortun 
patiently ?” 

“ How cruel you are !” “Take care, sire ; some one is coming.” 

The king looked all round him, and said, “ No, there is no one,” an¢ 
then continued : “Come, Henrietta, instead of trying to contend agains 
Monsiéur’s jealousy by a departure which would kill me -? Henrietti 
slightly shrugged her shoulders, like awoman unconvinced. “Yes,” repeate: 
Louis, “ which would kill me, I say. Instead of fixing your mind on thi 
departure, does not your imagination—or rather, does not your heart—sug 
gest some expedient ?” 

“What is it you wish my heart to suggest ?” | 

“ Tell me, how can one prove to another that it is wrong to be jealous: 

“In the first place, sire, by giving no motive for jealousy ; in other words 
in loving no one but the one in question.” 

“Oh! I expected better than that.”——-“ What did you expect ?” 

“That you would simply tell me that jealous people are pacified Db 
concealing the affection which is entertained for the object of their jealousy. 

“ Dissimulation is difficult, sire.” 

“Vet, it is only by means of conquering difficulties, that any happi 
ness is attained. As far as I am concerned, I swear I will give the li 
to those who are jealous of me, by pretending to treat you like any othe 
woman.” 

“A bad as well as an unsafe means,” said the young princess, shakin, 
her pretty head. 

“ You seem to think everything bad, dear Henrietta,” said Louis, dit 
contentedly. “ You destroy everything I propose. Suggest, at least, som¢ 
thing else in its stead. Come, try andthink. I trust implicitly to a woman’ 
invention. Do you invent, in your turn.” 

“Well, sire, ] have hit upon something. Will you listen to it ”” 

‘‘Can you ask me? You speak of a matter of life or death to me, an 
then ask if I will listen.” 

“Well, I judge of it by my own case. If my husband intended to pu 
me on the wrong scent with regard to another woman, one thing woul 
reassure me more than anything else.” 

“What would that be ?” 

“Tn the first place, to see that he never took any notice of the woma 
in question.” 


| WHAT WAS CAUGHT AFTER THE BUTTERFLIES. 519 
re wish to draw up a complete plan of attack, for you know, that 
,ler passion is subdivided in a variety of ways. Well, then, I shall 
the village of Little Attentions, at the hamlet of Love-Letters, 
follow the road of Visible Affection ; the way is clear enough you 
_nd poor Madame de Scudéry would never forgive me for passing 
,.a halting place without stopping.” 

‘! now we have returned to our proper senses, shall we say adieu, 


} 
s! it must be so, for, see, we are interrupted.” 
:, indeed,” said Madame Henrietta, “they are bringing Mademoi- 


Tonnay-Charente and her sphinx butterfly in grand procession 
” 


y- 
5 perfectly well understood, then, that this evening during the pro- 
i] am to make my escape into the forest, and finding La Vallitre 
you.” 

ill take care to send her away.” 

icy well ! I will speak to her when she is with her companions, and 
hen discharge my first arrow at her.” 

)skilful,” said Madame, laughing, “and do not miss the heart.” 

the princess took leave of the king, and went forward to meet the 
troop, which was advancing with much ceremony, and a great 
oretended flourishes of trumpets, which they imitated with their 


CHAPTER CXIV. 
THE BALLET OF THE SEASONS. 


» conclusion of the banquet, which had been served at five o’clock, 
ng entered his cabinet, where his tailors were awaiting him, for the 
ie of trying on the celebrated costume representing Spring, which 
ye result of so much imagination, and had cost so many efforts of 
it to the designers and ornament-workers of the court. As for the 
itself, every person knew the part he had to take in it, and how to 
m that part. The king had resolved to make it a matter of surprise. 
y, therefore, had he finished his conference, and entered his own 
ent, than he desired his two masters of the ceremonies, Villeroy and 
Aignan to be sent for. Both replied that they only awaited his 
,and that everything was ready to begin, but that it was necessary to 
: fine weather and a favourable night before those orders could be 
d out. The king opened his window ; the golden hues of evening 
be seen in the horizon through the vistas of the wood, and the 
_white as snow, was already visible in the heavens. Not a ripple 
“be noticed on the surface of the green waters; the swans them- 
even, reposing with folded wings like ships at anchor, seemed pene- 
by the warmth of the air, the freshness of the water, and the silence 
: beautifulevening. The king, having observed all these things, and 
mplated the magnificent picture before him, gave the order which 
leroy and De Saint-Aignan awaited ; but, with the view of ensuring 
ecution of this order in a royal manner, one last question was neces- 
and Louis XIV. put it to the two gentlemen, in the following manner : 
ave you any money ?” 

ire,” replied Saint-Aignan, “we have arranged everything with M. 
t.—_—“ Ah! very well !” 


Leal 
t 


fe) THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, . 


“Let him come in, then,” said the king ; and as if Colbert ha| | 
eping himself az coup : 
ing had pronounced hi: | 


“Ah; M. Colbert,’ said the king. # Gentlemen, to your posts ;” Ay 
upon Saint-Aignan and Villeroy took their leave. The king seated h 
in an easy chair near the window, saying: “The ballet will take 
this evening, M. Colbert.” 

“In that case, sire, I settle the accounts to-morrow.” “Why sf 


“T promised the tradespeople to pay their bills the following day t}! 
on which the ballet should take place.” 


“Very well, M. Colbert, pay them, since you have promised to dog 
“ Certainly, sire; but I must have money to do that,” 


“ What ! have not the four millions, which M. Fouquet promised | 
sent? I had forgotten to ask you about it.” 
“Well ?” 


“Sire, they were sent at the hour promised.” 
“ Well, sire, the coloured lamps, the fireworks, the musicians, ancf 
cooks have swallowed up four millions in eight days.” “ Entirely i 
“To the last penny. Every time your majesty directed the bank 


the grand canal to be illuminated, as much oil was consumed as there}. 
water in the basins,” 


“Well, well, M. Colbert ; the fact is, then 
“T have no more, sire, but M. Fouquet has,” 
darkening with a sini 
“What do you mean ?” inquired Louis. ! 
“We have already-made M. Fouquet advance six millions. Heal 
given them with too much stace, not to have others still to give, if t 
are required, which is the case at the present moment. It is necessi 
therefore, that he should comply.” 
The king frowned. “ M_ Colbert,” said he, accentuating the financie 
name, “that is not the way I understood the matter; I do not wisl 
make use, against any of my servants, of a means of pressure which m 


oppress him and fetter his services. In eight days, M. Fouquet has f 
nished six millions, that is a good sum.” 


Colbert turned pale. “And yet,” he said, “ 
_ this language some time ago, when the news ab 
instance,” “ You are right, M. Colbert.” 


ged since then; on the contrary, indeec 
“In my th oughts, monsieur, everything is changed.” 


0 longer believe the attempts.” | 
e alone, monsieur ; and I have already to. 


your majesty did not tu 
out Belle-Isle arrived, 


from anger and from fea 
grace with your majesty.’ 
) » on the contrary, most agreeable to me.” 

id ¢ inister, with a certain affected bluntness, so suc 
cessful when it was i ing Louis’ seiy esteem, “what us 
§ agreeable to your Majesty, if one can no longer be ¢ 
any to you ?” 


47 ec VE your Services. fora better occasion ; and, believe me, the 
will only be the better appreciated,” 


THE BALLET OF THE SEASONS. 528 


our majesty’s plan, then, in this affair, is——” 
y¥ou want money, M. Colbert ?” 
seven hundred thousand francs, sire.” 
wou will take them from my private treasure.” Colbert bowed. 
sJ,” added Louis, “as it seems a difficult matter for you, notwithstand- 
your economy, to defray, with so limited a sum, the expenses which I 
id to incur, I will at once sign an order for three millions.” 
1e king took a pen and signed an order immediately, then handed it 
olbert. “Be satisfied, M. Colbert, the plan I have adopted is one 
hy of a king,” said Louis XIV., who pronounced these words with 
1e majesty he knew how to assume in such circumstances; and he 
\issed Colbert for the purpose of giving an audience to his tailors. 
1e order issued by the king was known in the whole of Fontainebleau ; 
is already known, too, that the king was trying on his costume, and 
the ballet would be danced in the evening. The news circulated 
the rapidity of lightning ; during its progress it kindled every variety 
dquetry, desire, and wild ambition. At the same moment, as if by 
antment, every one who knew how to hold a needle, every one who 
ddistinguish a coat from a pair of trousers, was summoned to the 
stance of those who had received invitation. The king had completed 
oilette at nine o'clock; he appeared in an open carriage decorated 
branches of trees and flowers. The queens had taken their seats 
1 a magnificent dais or platform, erected upon the borders of the 
, in a theatre of wonderful elegance of construction. In the space of 
hours the carpenters had put together all the different parts con- 
ed with the theatre ; the upholsterers had laid down the carpets, 
ted the seats; and, as if at the signal of an enchanter’s wand, a 
‘sand arms, aiding, instead of interfering with each other, had con- 
cted the building on this spot amidst the sound of music ; whilst, at 
same time, other workmen illuminated the theatre and the shores of 
Take with an incalculable number of lamps. As the heavens, set. 
Stars, were perfectly unclouded, as not evena breath of air could 
‘eard in the woods, and as if nature herself had yielded complacently to 
ang’s fancies, the back of the theatre had been left open; so that, 
ad-the foreground of the scenes, could be seen as a background the 
‘tiful sky, glittering with stars ; the sheet of water, illumined by the 
‘3 which were reflected in it; and the bluish outline of the grand 
es of woods, with their rounded tops. When the king made his 
‘arance, the whole theatre was full, and presented to the view one 
group, dazzling with gold and precious stones ; in which, however, 
e first glance, no one single face could be distinguished. By degrees, 
e sight became accustomed to so much brilliancy, the rarest beauties 
ared to the view, as in the evening sky the stars appear one by one 
/m who closes his eyes and then opens them again. 
ve theatre represented a grove of trees: a few fauns lifting up their 
‘nm feet, were jumping about ; a dryad made her appearance on the 
>, and was immediately pursued by them ; others gathered round her 
er defence, and they quarrelled as they danced. Suddenly, for the 
‘ose of restoring peace and order, Spring, accompanied by his whole 
made his appearance. The Elements, the subaltern powers of my- 
gy, together with their attributes, precipitated themselves upon the 
of their gracious sovereign. The Seasons, the allies of Spring, fol- 
‘Lhim closely to form a quadrille, which, after many words of more or 
lattering import, was the commencement of the dance. The music, 


622 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 
hautboys, flutes, and viols, were descriptive of the rural delights. The 
king had already made his appearance, amid thunders of applause. He 
was dressed in a tunic of flowers, which set off his easy and well-formed 
figure to advantage. His legs, the best-shaped at the court, were also dis- 
played to great advantage In flesh-coloured silken hose, of silk so fine and 
so transparent that it seemed almost like flesh itself. The most beautiful 
pale-lilac satin shoes, with bows of flowers and leaves, imprisoned 
small feet. The bust of the figure was in harmonious keeping 
the base ; the waving hair was floating on his shoulders, the freshnc: 
his complexion was enhanced by the brilliancy of his beautiful blue ¢- 
which softly kindled all hearts ; a mouth with tempting lips, which dei? 
to open in smiles.—Such was the prince of the period, who had that ey, 
ing been justly named “ The King of all the Loves.” There was sq’ 
thing in his carriage which resembled the buoyant movements of an 
mortal, and he did not dance so much as seem to soar along. His ent: 
had produced, therefore, the most brilliant effect. Suddenly the cs 
de Saint-Aignan was observed endeavouring to approach either the b 
or Madame. 

The princess—who was clothed in a long dress, diaphanous and lig. 
the finest network tissue from the hands of the skilful Mechlin workers, 
her knee occasionally revealed beneath the folds of the tunic, and her little 
feet encased in silken shoes—advanced, radiant with beauty, accompanied 
by her cortége of Bacchantes, and had already reached the spot which had 
been assigned to her in the dance. The applause continued so long that 
the comte had ample leisure to join the king. 
-. “What is the matter, Saint-Aignan ?” said Spring. 

“Nothing whatever,” replied the courtier, as pale as death; “but your 
majesty has not thought of the Fruits.” 

“Yes ; it is suppressed.” 

“Far from it, sire ; your majesty having given no directions about it, 
the musicians have retained it.” 

‘How excessively annoying,” said the king. “This figure cannot be 
performed, since M. de Guiche is absent. It must be suppressed.” 

“ Oh, sire, a quarter of an hour’s music without any dancing will produce 
an effect so chilling as to ruin the success of the ballet.” 

“But, comte, since i . 

“Oh, sire, that is not the greatest misfortune ; for, after all, the orchestra 
could still just as well cut it out, if it were necessary ; but - 

But what ?’>———“ Why, M. de Guiche is here.” 

“ Here 2” replied the king, frowning, “here? Are you sure ?” 

“Yes, sire ; and ready-dressed for the ballet.” | 
Tata felt himself colour deeply, and said, “You are probably mis- 


at him, in order that he mich 
of the kin 


box—to describe also the agitated movement of the heads in the the 


t gaping witl. 
47, approached | 


astonishment as he looked at the comte, who, bowing lowl: 


THE BALLET OF THE SEASONS. 523 


@;,” he said, “ your majesty’s most devoted servant approaches to 
ti a service on this occasion with similar zeal to that he has already 
Yon the field of battle. Your majesty, in omitting the dance of the 
Mwould be losing the most beautiful scene in the ballet. I did not 
W be the cause of so great a prejudice to your majesty’s elegance, 
nd graceful address ; and I have left my tenants in order to place 
“ices at your majesty’s commands.” 
4% word fell distinctly, in perfect harmony and eloquence upon 
IXIV.’s ears. Their flattery pleased, as much as De Guiche’s 
b had astonished him, and he simply replied, “ I did not tell you to 
, comte.” 
ertainly not, sire, but your majesty did not tell me to remain.” 
» king perceived that time was passing away, that if the scene were 
iged it might complicate everything, and that a single cloud upon 
cture would effectually spoil the whole. Besides, the king’s heart 
led with two or three new ideas : he had just derived fresh inspira- 
om the eloquent glances of Madame. Her look had said to him, 
1. they are jealous of you, divide their suspicions, for the man who 
ts two rivals does not distrust either in particular.” So that Madame, 
s clever diversion, decided him. The king smiled upon De Guiche, 
id not comprehend a word of Madame’s dumb language, but only 
ked that she pretended not to look at him, and he attributed the 
n which had been conferred upon him to the princess’s kindness of 
The king seemed pleased with every one present. Monsieur was 
ly one who did not understand anything about the matter. The 
began ; the effect was more than beautiful. When the music, by 
rsts of melody, carried away these illustrious dancers, when the 
, untutored pantomime of that period, far more so on account of 
ry indifferent acting of the august actors, had reached its culminat- 
int of triumph, the theatre almost shook with the tumultuous ap- 


my 


Guiche shone like a sun, but like a courtly sun, which is resigned 
a subordinate part. Disdainful of a success of which Madame showed 
nowledgment, he thought of nothing but of boldly regaining the 
ed preference of the princess. She, however, did not bestow a single 
e upon him. By degrees all his happiness, all his brilliancy subsided 
egret and uneasiness ; so that his limbs lost their power, his arms 
heavily by his side, and his head seemed stupefied. The king, who 
-om this moment become in reality the principal dancer in the quad- 
rast a look upon his vanquished rival. De Guiche soon ceased to 
n even the character of the courtier: without applause, he danced 
erently, and very soon could not dance at all, by which means the 
ph of the king and of Madame was assured. 
q 


CHAPTER CXV. 
THE NYMPHS OF THE PARK OF FONTAINEBLEAU. 


king remained for a moment to enjoy a triumph which was as com- 
as it could possibly be. He then turned towards Madame, for the 
ise of admiring her also, a little, in her turn. Young persons love 
more vivacity, perhaps with greater ardour and deeper passion, than 
; more advanced in years ; but all the other feelings are at the same 
developed in proportion to their youth and vigour; so that vanity 


524 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


being with them almost always the equivalent of love, the latter feelin 
according to the laws of equipoise, never attains that degree of perfectio 
which it acquires in men and women from thirty to five-and-thirty year 
of age. Louis thought of Madame, but only after he had carefully thoug 
of himself ; and Madame carefully thought of herself, without bestowing 
singlethought upon theking. Thevictim, however, ofall theseroyalaffectio 
and vanities, was poor De Guiche. Everyone could observe his agitati 
prostration—a prostration which was, indeed, the more remarkablen 
people were not accustomed to see him with his arms hanging listles# 
his side, his head bewildered, and his eyes with their bright intelli 
gone. It rarely happened that any uneasiness was excited on his acc 
whenever a question of elegance or taste was under discussion, an 
Guiche’s defeat was accordingly attributed by the greater number pr 
to his courtier-like tact and ability. But there were others—keen-sig 
observers are always to be met with at court—who remarked his pal 
and his altered looks, which he could neither feign nor conceal ; and 
conclusion was, that De Guiche was not acting the part of a flatterer. 
these sufferings, successes, and remarks, were blended, confounded 
lost in the uproar of applause. When, however, the queens had exprif 
their satisfaction and the spectators their enthusiasm, when the king na 
retired to his dressing-room to change his costume, and whilst Monsieu| 
dressed as a woman, as he delighted to be, was, in his turn, dancing abo 
De Guiche, who had now recovered himself, approached Madame, wh 
seated at the back of the theatre, was waiting for the second part, and hz 
quitted the others for the purpose of creating a sort of solitude for hers¢ 
in the midst of the crowd, to meditate, as it were, beforehand, upon chor, 
graphic effects ; and it will be perfectly understood that, absorbed in de 
meditation, she did not see, or rather she pretended not to see, anythi 
that was passing around her. De Guiche, observing that she was alor 
near a thicket constructed of painted cloth, approached her. Two of }? 
maids of honour, dressed as hamadryads, seeing De Guiche advance, dre 
back out of respect, whereupon De Guiche proceeded towards the mid¢ 
of the circle and saluted her royal highness ; but, whether she did or d 
not observe his salutation, the princess did not even turn her head. | 
cold shiver passed through poor De Guiche ; he was unprepared for. 
utter an indifference, for he had neither seen nor been told of anythii 
that had taken place, and consequently could guess nothing. Remarkir 
therefore, that his obeisance obtained him no acknowledgment, he advanc 
one step further, and in a voice which he tried, though uselessly, to rene 
calm, said, “I have the honour to present my most humble respects 
your royal highness.” L 

Upon this Madame deigned to turn her eyes languishingly towards f 
comte, observing, “ Ah! M. de Guiche, is that you ; good day !” 

The comte’s patience almost forsook him, as he continued,—“ Y 
royal highness danced just now most charmingly.” 

: Do you think so ?” she replied with indifference. 

Yes ; the character which your royal highness assumed is in perf 

harmony with your own.” 

Madame again turned round, and, looking De Guiche full in the fa 
with a bright and steady gaze, said,—“ Why so?” 

“Oh! there can be no doubt of it.” 

“Explain yourself?” 

“ You represent a divinity, beautiful, disdainful, and inconstant.” 

You mean Pomona, comte?” 


THE NYMPHS OF THE PARK OF FONTAINEBLEAU. 525 


eallude to the goddess you represent.” 
tdame remained silent for a moment, with her lips compressed, and 
) bserved,—-“ But, comte, you, too, are an excellent dancer.” 
say, madame, I am only one of those who are never noticed, or who 
won forgotten if they ever happen to be noticed.” 
ith this remark, accompanied by one of those deep sighs which affect 
emotest fibres of one’s being, his heart burdened with sorrow and 
.2ing fast, his head on fire, and his gaze wandering, he bowed breath- 
s, and withdrew behind the thicket. The only reply Madame con- 
tnded to make was by slightly raising her shoulders, and, as her 
s of honour had discreetly retired while the conversation lasted, she 
led them by a look. The ladies were Mademoiselle de Tonnay- 
ente and Mademoiselle de Montalais. 
avon hear what the Comte de Guiche said ?” the princess inquired, 
0. 
t really is very singular,” she continued, in a compassionate tone, 
v exile has affected poor M. de Guiche’s wit.” And then, in a louder 
» fearful lest her unhappy victim might lose a syllable, she said,—“ In 
it place he danced badly, and then afterwards his remarks were 
silly. 
e then rose, humming the air to which she was presently going to 
2. De Guiche had overheard everything. The arrow had pierced 
eart and wounded him mortally. Then, at the risk of interrupting 
rogress of the /é¢e by his annoyance, he fled from the scene, tearing 
reautiful costume of Autumn in pieces, and scattering, as he went 
the branches of vines, mulberry and almond trees, with all the other 


cial attributes of his divinity. A quarter of an hour afterwards he~ 


‘eturned to the theatre ; but it will be readily believed that it was only 
verful effort of reason over his great excitement that had enabled him 
urn : or perhaps, for the heart is so cunstituted, he found it im pos- 
even to remain much longer separated from the presence of cne who 
woken that heart. Madame was finishing her figure. She saw, but 
.ot look at, De Guiche, who, irritated and furious, turned his back 
her as she passed him, escorted by her nymphs, and followed by a 
‘ed flatterers. During this time, at the other end of the theatre, near 
‘ke, a young woman was seated, with her eyes fixed upon one of the 
»ws of the theatre, from which were issuing streams of light, the 
»w in question being that of the royal box. As De Guiche quitted 
\eatre for the purpose of getting into the fresh air he so much needed, 
ssed close to this figure and saluted her. When she perceived the 
* man, she rose, like a woman surprised in the midst of ideas she was 
nus of concealing from herself. De Guiche stopped as he recognised 
nd said hurriedly,—“ Good evening, Mademoiselle de la Valliére ; I 
deed fortunate in meeting you.” ; 
also, M. de Guiche, am glad of this accidental meeting,” said the 
girl, as she was about to withdraw. 

ray do not leave me,” said De CGuiche, stretching out his hand to- 
her, “for you would be contradicting the kind words you have just 
unced. Remain, I implore you: the evening is most lovely. You 
to escape from this tumult, and prefer your own society. Well, I 
nderstand it ; all women who are possessed of any feeling do, and 
ever find them dull or lonely when removed from the giddy vortex 
se exciting amusements. Oh! Heavens!” he exclaimed suddenly. 
That is the matter, monsieur le comte?” inquired La Valli¢re, with 
anxiety. “ You seem agitated.” “I! oh, no !” 


526 THE VICOMTE DE BRA GELONNE, 


“Will you allow me, M. de Guiche, to return you the thanks I h 
posed to offer you on the very first Opportunity. It is to your. 
mendation, I am aware, that I owe my admission among the nur 
Madame’s maids of honour.” 

“Indeed! Ah! I remember now, and I congratulate myself. 
love any one ??—_“ J 1» exclaimed La Valliére., 

“Forgive me; | hardly know what I am Saying ; a thousand tim 
give me ; Madame was right, quite right, this brutal exile has com 
turned my brain.” 

“ And yet it seemed to me that the king received you with kindn 

“Do you think so? Received me with kindness—perhaps so—y 

“There cannot be a doubt he received you kindly, for, in fact, yor 
returned without his permission,” 

“ Quite true, and I believe you are right. But have you not seen - 
Bragelonne here ?” 

La Valliére started at the name. “ Why do you ask »” she inquire 

“Have I offended you again?’ said De Guiche. « In that case 
indeed unhappy, and greatly to be pitied.” 

“Yes, very unhappy, and very much to be pitied, Monsieur de Gu 
for you seem to be suffering terribly.” ' 

Oh, mademoiselle, why have I not a devoted sister, or a true fr 
Such as yourself” 

“You have friends, Monsieur de Guiche, and the Vicomte de 
lonne, of whom you spoke just now, is, I believe, one of them.” 

“Yes, yes, you are tight, he is one of my best friends. 
moiselle de la Valliére, farewell.” And he fled, like one 
tie banks of the lake. His dark shadow glided, le 


returned to look after their companion, _ 
“What, already here !” they said to her, “We thought we should 
the first at the rendezvous,” ; 
“I have been here this quarter of an hour,” replied La Valliare. 
“Did not the dancing amuse you P?___“ Nig » 
“ But surely the whole spectacle ?” 


“La Valliare is quite a poet,” said Tonnay-Charente. 
A In other words,” said Montalais, “she ‘js insupportable, Wheney 
there is a question of laughing a little, i 


thing, La Valliére begins to cry ; whenever w 


» Or because our vanity hi 
been wounded, or our costume fails to Produce any effect La Vallié 


a 
Ag ayooe Taha concerned, that is not my character,” 


said Mademo 
selle de Tonnay-Charente, “] am a woman, 


there are few like me; whe 


"HE NYMPHS OF THE PARK OF FONTAINEBLEAU, 527 


ves me, flatters me ; whoever flatters me, pleases me ; and whoever 
? 


Il!” said Montalais, “ you do not finish.” 
s too difficult,” replied Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, laughing 
“Do you, who are so clever, finish for me.” 

d you, Louise ?” said Montalais, “ does any one please you ?” 

at is a matter which concerns no one but myself,” replied the young 
ing from the mossy bank on which she had been reclining during 
ole time the ballet had lasted. ‘* Now, mesdemoiselles, we have 

' to amuse ourselves to-night without any one to overlook us, and 
t any escort. We are three in number, we like one another, and 
rht is lovely ; look yonder, do you not see the moon slowly rising, 
1¢ the topmost branches of the chestnuts and the oaks? Oh! beau- 

ilk ! dear liberty ! the beautiful soft turf of the woods, the happinéss 

your friendship confers upon me! let us walk arm-in-arm towards 

arge trees. Out yonder all are at this moment seated at table and 
>cupied, or preparing to adorn themselves for a set and formal pro- 
e; horses are being saddled or harnessed to the carriages—the 

5 mules or Madame’s four white ponies. As for ourselves, we shall 
sach some retired spot where no eye can see us and no step follow 

Do you not remember, Montalais, the woods of Chaverney and of 
»ord, the numberless poplars of Blois, where we exchanged some of 

1tual hopes ?” 

d many confidences also ?”»———“ Yes.” 

ell,” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, “I also think a good 

but I take care——” 

/ say nothing,” said Montalais, “so that when Mademoiselle de 

y-Charente thinks, Athenais is the only one who knows it.” 

ish!” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, “I hear steps 
ching from this side.” 

ick, quick, then, among the high reed-grass,” said Montalais, “stoop 

ais, you are so tall.” 

lemoiselle de Tonnay-Charente stooped as she was told, and, almost 

‘same moment they saw two gentlemen approaching, their heads 

own, walking arm-in-arm, on the fine gravel-walk running parallel 

1e bank. The young girls had, indeed, made themselves small, for 

g was to be seen of them.” ; 

is Monsieur de Guiche,” whispered Montalais in Mademoiselle de 
y-Charente’s ear. , 

is Monsieur de Bragelonne,” whispered the latter to La Vallire. 
two young men approached still closer, conversing in animated 

“She was here just now,” said the count, “if I had only seen 

should have declared it to be a vision, but I spoke to her.” 

ju are positive, then ?” 

's ; but perhaps I frightened her.” —“ In what way ee 

1! I was still half mad, at what you know, so that she could hardly 

inderstood what I was saying, and must have become alarmed.” 

1” said Bragelonne, “ do not make yourself uneasy : she is all kind- 

ind will excuse you ; she is clear-sighted, and will understand.” 

1s, but if she should have understood, and understood too well, she 

ilk.” 

su do not know Louise, count,” said Raoul. “ Louise possesses every 
and has nota single fault.” And the two young men passed on, and. 

y proceeded, their voices were soon lost in the distance. 


528 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“ How is it, La Valliére,” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, “ tha 
the Vicomte de Bragelonne spoke of you as Louise ?” ; 

“We were brought up together,” replied Louise, blushing; “ M. d 
Bragelonne has honoured me by asking my hand in marriage, but - 

“ Well 2»——“ It seems the king will not consent to the marriage.” 

“ Eh? Why the king? and what has the king to do with it ?” exclaime 
Aure sharply. “Good gracious! has the king the right to interfexed 
matters of that kind? Politics are politics, as M. de Mazarin used to say 
but love is love. If, therefore, you love M. de Bragelonne. marry \hing | 
give my consent.” 3 

Athenais began to laugh. ee 

“Oh! I speak seriously,” replied Montalais, “and my opinion in thi 
case is quite as good as the king’s, I suppose ; is it not, Louise ?” | : 

“Come,” said La Valliére, “these gentlemen have passed; let ws tak4 
advantage of our being alone to cross the open ground, and so take refuge 
in the woods.” | ae 

“So much the better,” said Athenais, “ because I see the torches; setting 


out from the chateau and the theatre, which seem as if they were Joreced 
ing some person of distinction.” f | 

“Let us run, then,” said all three. And, gracefully lifting up tlre tom 
skirts of their silk dresses, they lightly ran across the open space betwee§ 
the lake and the thickest covert of the park. Montalais, agile as a dee 
Athenais eager as a young wolf, bounded through the dry grass, and, no 
and then, some bold Acteon might, by the aid of the faint light, have pe 
ceived their straight and well-formed limbs somewhat displayed beneatg 
the heavy folds of their satin petticoats. La Valliére, more refined a1 
less bashful, allowed her dress to flow around her; retarded also by t 
lameness of her foot, it was not long before she called out to her cof 
panions to halt, and, left behind, she obliged them both to wait for her. 
this moment, a man, concealed in a dry ditch full of young willow sapling 
scrambled quickly up its shelving side, and ran off in the direction of # 
chateau. ‘The three young girls, on their side, reached the outskirts | 
the park, every path of which they well knew. The ditches were borderé 
by high hedges full of flowers, which on that side protected the foot-pé 
sengers from being intruded upon by the horses and carriages. In fa 
the sound of Madame’s and of the queen’s carriages could be heard in ti] 
distance upon the hard dry ground of the roads, followed by the mount 
cavaliers. Distant music was heard in response, and when the soft not 
died away, the nightingale, with his song full of pride, poured forth 
melodious chants, and his most complicated, learned, and sweetest com 
positions, to those who he perceived had met beneath the thick covert § 
the woods. Near the songster, in the dark background of the large tre 
could be seen the glistening eyes of an owl, attracted by the harmony. 
this way the /é¢e, for the whole court was a /éze also for the mysterious 1 
habitants of the forest ; for certainly .the deer from the brake, the pheasafl 
on the branch, the fox in its hole, were all listening. One could reali 
the life led by this nocturnal and invisible population from the restlefl| 
movements which suddenly took place among the leaves. Our sylvd 
nymphs uttered a slight cry, but reassured immediately afterwards, thé 
laughed, and resumed their walk. In this manner they reached the roy, 
oak, the venerable relic of an oak which in its earlier days had listened } 
the sighs of Henry the Second for the beautiful Diana of Poictiers, am 
later still to those of Henry the Fourth for the lovely Gabrielle d’Estrées 
Beneath this oak the gardeners had piled up the moss and turf in such | 


: THE NYMPHS OF THE PARK OF FONTAINEBLEAU. 529 
ner that never had a seat more luxuriously reposed the wearied limbs 
ay monarch. The trunk of the tree, somewhat rough to recline against, 
sufficiently large to accommodate the three young girls, whose voices 
lost among the branches, which stretched downwards towards the 


ee eee 


| CHAPTER, CXVIL 
| WHAT WAS SAID UNDER THE ROYAL OAK. 


+ softness of theair, the stillness of the foliage, tacitly imposeaupon these 

ag girls an engagement to change immediately their giddy conversa- 

for one of a more serious character. She, indeed, whose disposition 

‘the most lively,—Montalais, for instance,—was the first to yield to its 

sence ; and she began by heaving a deep sigh, and saying: “ What 
piness to be here alone, and at liberty, with every right to be frank, 
scially towards each other.” 

Yes,” said Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente ; “for the court, how- 

+ brilliant it may be, has always some falsehood concealed beneath the 

s of its velvet robes, or beneath the blaze of its diamonds.” 

I,” replied La Valliére, “ I never tell a falsehood ; when I cannot speak 

truth, I remain silent.” 

You will not remain long in favour,” said Montalais ; “it is not here, 

: was at Blois, where we told the dowager Madame all our little annoy- 

es, and all our longings. There were certain days when Madame 

embered that she herself had been young, and, on those days, who- 
- talked with her found in her a sincere friend. She related to us her — 
ations with Monsieur, and we told her of the flirtations she uad had 
1 others, or, at least, the rumours of them which had been spread 
yad. Poor woman, so simple-minded ! she laughed at them, as we did. 

ere is she now ?” 

Ah, Montalais,—laughter-loving Montalais !” cried La Valliére ; “you 
you are sighing again ; the woods inspire you, and you are almost rea- 
ible this evening.” 

You ought not, either of you,” said Athenais, “to regret the court at 
is so much, unless you do not feel happy with us. A court is a place 

‘re men and women resort to talk of matters which mothers, guardians, 
especially confessors, so severely denounce.” 

Oh, Athenais !” said Louise, blushing. 

Athenais is frank to-night,” said Montalais ; “let us avail ourselves 

- 

Yes, let us take advantage of it ; for this evening I could divulge the 

rest secrets of my heart.” 

Ah, if M. de Montespan were here !” said Montalais. 

Do you think that I care for M. de Montespan ?” murmured the beau- 

| young girl. 

He is handsome, I believe ?” 

Yes ; and that is no small advantage in my eyes.” 

There now, you see # 

J will go further, and say that, of all the men whom one sees here, he 

he handsomest and the most——” 

‘What was that ?” said La Valliére, starting suddenly from the mossy 

k. 

A deer which hurried by, perhaps.” 


34 


£30 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. ‘\ 

“T am only afraid of men,” said Athenais. : | 

“When they do not eeenble M. de Montespan.” 

“A truce to this raillery. M de Montespan is attentive to me, but th 
does not commit me ii) any way. Is not M. de Guiche here—he who is: 
devoted to Madame ?” | 

“Poor fellow !” said La Valliére. . 

“Why poor? Madame is sufficiently beautiful, and of sufficiently Mig 
rank, I suppose ?” ; 

La Vallitre shook her head sorrowfully, saying : “When one loves, iti 
neither beauty nor rank ; when one loves, it should be the heart, or th 
eyes only, of him, or of her, whom one loves.” Z 

Montalais began to laugh loudly. “ Heart, eyes !” she said ; “oh, stigai 
plums !”——,,‘ I speak for “myself,” replied La Valliére. 

“ Noble sentiments,” said Athenais, with an air of protection, but wit 
indifference. 7 | 

“ Are they not your own ?” said Louise. 

“ Perfectly so ; but, to continue, how can one pity a man who bestoy 
his attentions upon such a woman as Madame? If any dispropo 
exists, it is on the count’s side.” wy 

“ Oh ! no, no,” returned La Valliére ; “it is on Madame’s side.” 

“Explain yourself.” 

“JT will. Madame has not even a wish to know what love is. She aie 
herself with the feeling, as children do with fireworks, of which a Spai 
might set a palace on fire. It makes a display, and that is all she car 
about. Besides, pleasure and iove form the tissue of which she wish 
her life to be woven. M de Guiche will love this illustrious personag| 
buc she will never love him.” 

Athenais laughed disdainfully. “Do people really love?” she sa| 
“Where are the noble sentiments you just now uttered? Does nol 
woman’s virtue consist in the courageous refusal of every intrigue whi 
might compromise her? A properly. regulated woman, endowed with 
generous heart, ought to look at men, make herself loved, adored eve 
by them, and say, ‘at the very utmost, but once in her life, ‘T begin 
think that I ought not to have been what I am; I should have detest 
this oné less than others.’” 

“Therefore,” exclaimed La Valliére, “that is what M. de Montesp 
has tO expect.” 

“Certainly, he as well as every one else. What! have I not said tI 
I admit he possesses a certain superiority, and would not that be enou 
My dear child, a woman is a queen during the whole period nature per 
her to enjoy sovereign power—from fifteen to thirty-five years of 1 
After that, we are free to have a heart, when we only have that left—— 

a O18 oh !” murmured La Valliere. 

“Excellent !” cried Montalais ; “a wife and mistress combined in o. 
Athenais, you will make your way in the world,” 
“Do you not approve of what I say ?” 

“ Completely,” replied her laughing companion. 

“ You are not serious, Montalais ?” said Louise. | 

“Ves, yes; I approve everything Athenais has just said ; only ——” 

“Only what ?” 

“Well, I cannot carry it out. I have the firmest principles ; : I fo 
resolutions beside which the laws of the Stadtholder and of the King 


Spain are child’s play; but, when the moment arrives to put them i 
execution, nothing comes of them,” 


WHAT WAS SAID UNDER THE ROYAL OAK. 53 


‘our courage fails,” said Athenais, scornfully.——“ Miserably so.” 
reat weakness of nature,” returned Athenais. “But at least you 
_a choice.” 
Vhy, no. It pleases fate to disappoint me in everything : I dream ot 
rors, and I find only——” 
sure, Aure !” exclaimed La Valliére, “ for pity’s sake, do not, for the 
ure of saying something witty, sacrifice those who love you with such 
‘ed affection.” 
Ih, I do not trouble myself much about that ; those who love me are 
iently happy that I do not dismiss them altogether. So much the 
> for myself if I have a weakness for any one ; but so much the worse 
thers if I revenge myself upon them for it.” 
‘ou are right,” said Athenais, “and perhaps you, too, will reach the 
goal ; in other words, young ladies, that 1s termed being a coquette. 
who are very silly in most things, are particularly so in confounding, 
r the term coquetry, a woman’s pride, and her variableness. I, for 
nee, am proud—that is to say, impregnable ; I treat my admirers 
ily, but without any pretension to retain them. Men call me a co- 
e, because they are vain enough to think I care for them. Other 
en—-Montalais, for instance—have allowed themselves to be influenced 
ittery ; they would be lost were it not for that most fortunate prin- 
of instinct which urges them to change suddenly, and punish the 
whose devotion they had so recently accepted.” 
\ very learned dissertation,” said Montalais, in the tone of thorough 
vment.——“ It is odious !” murmured Louise. 
Thanks to this sort of coquetry, for indeed that is genuine coquetry,” 
nued Mademoiselle Tonnay-Charente ; ‘‘ the lover who, a little while 
, was puffed up with pride, in a minute afterwards, is suffering at 
y pore of his vanity and self-esteem. He was, perhaps, already be- 
ing to assume the airs of a conqueror, but now he recedes ; he was 
t to assume an air of protection towards us, but he is obliged to pro- 
e himself once more. The result of all which is, that, instead of having 
sband who is jealous and troublesome, from restraint ii. his conduct 
rds us, we have a lover always trembling in our presence, always 
nated by our attractions, and always submissive ; and ‘or this simple 
yn, that he finds the same woman never the same. Be convinced, 
fore, of the .dvantages of coquetry. Possessing that, one reigns a 
n among women n cases where Providence has withheld that precious 
ty of holding one’s heart and mind in check.” 
How. clever you are,” said Montalais, “and how well you understand 
luty women owe themselves.” 
[am only settling a case of individual happiness,” said Athenais, 
estly ; “and defend myself, like all weak, loving dispositions, against 
yppression of the stronger.” La Valli¢re did not say a word. 
Does she not approve of what we are saying ?” 
Nay ; only I do not understand it,” said Louise. “ You talk like those 
would not be called upon to live in this world of ours.” 
And very pretty your world is,” said Montalais. 
A world,” returned Athenais, “in which men worship a woman until 
has fallen,—or insult her when she has fallen.” 
Who spoke to you of falling ?” said Louise. 
Yours is a new theory, then ; will you tell us how you intend to resist 
ling to temptation, if you allow yourself to be hurried away by feel- 
of affection »” 


* 


532 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“ Oh !” exclaimed the young girl, raising towards the dark heavens he 
beautiful eyes filled with tears, “if you did but know what a heart was, 
would explain, and would convince you; a loving heart is stronger tha’ 
all your coquetry, and more powerful than all your pride. A woman } 
never truly loved, I believe ; a man never loves with idolatry, except h 
feel himself loved in return. Let old men, whom we read of in comedie! 
fancy themselves adored by coquettes. A young man is conscious 0 
and knows, them ; if he has a fancy, or a strong desire, or an absorbin; 
passion, for a coquette, he cannot mistake her ; a coquette may drive hin 
out of his senses, but will never make him fall in love. Love, such as | 
conceive it to be, is an incessant, complete, and perfect sacrifice ; but i) 
is not the sacrifice of one only of the two persons who are united. It i: 
the perfect abnegation of two who are desirous of blending their being: 
into one. If I ever love, I shal] implore my lover to leave me free anc 
pure ; I will tell him, wh’at he will understand, that my heart was torn by 
my refusal, and he, in his love for me, aware of the magnitude of my 
sacrifice,—he, in his turn, I say, will show his devotion for me,—will te 
spect me, and will not seek my ruin, to insult me when I shall have fallen 
as you said just now, when uttering your blasphemies against love, sucl 
as I understand it. That is my idea of love. And now you will tell me 
perhaps, that my lover will despise me; I defy him to do so, unless h 
be the vilest of men, and my heart assures me that it 1s not such a may 
I should choose. A look from me will repay him for the sacrifices h 
makes, or it will inspire him with virtues which he would never think h 


possessed.” 


“But, Louise,” exclaimed Montalais, “ you tell us this, and do not cart 
it into practice.” ——“ What do you mean ?” | 
“You are adored by Raoul de Bragelonne, who worships you on bot 
his knees. The poor fellow is made the victim of your virtue, just as I 
would be —nay, more than he would be even, of my coquetry, or | 
Athenais’s pride.” 
“This is simply a different shade of coquetry,” said Athenais ; “ar 
Louise, I perceive, is a coquette without knowing it.” 

«Oh: said: La: Vialliére. 

“Yes you may call it instinct, if you please, keenest sensibility, exqu 
site refinement of feeling, perpetual display of unrestrained outbreaks | 
affection which end in nothing. It is very artful too, and very effectiv 
I should even, now that I reflect on it, have preferred this system 
tactics to my own pride, for waging war with members of the other sex, b 
cause it offers the advantage sometimes of thoroughly convincing then 
but, at the present moment, without utterly condemning myself, I decla 
it to be superior to the simple coquetry of Montalais.” And the ty 
young girls began to laugh. 

La Valliére alone preserved a silence, and quietly shook her hez 
Then, a moment after, she added, “If you were to tell me in the presen 
of aman, but a fourth part of what you have just said, or even if I we 
assured that you think it, I should die of shame and grief where Lé 
now.” | 

“Very well; die, poor tender little darling,” replied Mademoiselle 
Tonnay-Charente ; “ for, if there are no men here, there are at least t 
women, your own friends, who declare you to be attainted and convict 
of being a coquette from instinct ; in other words, the most dangerc 
kind of coquette which the world possesses.” tune Z 

“Oh! mesdemoiselles,” replied La Vallitre, blushing,and almost rea 

Mi 


to weep. Her two companions again burst out laughing. 
ve 


WHAT WAS SAID UNDER THE ROYAL OAK. §33 


Tery well! I shall ask Bragelonne to tell me.” 
3ragelonne?” said Athenais. 
ves! Bragelonne, who is as courageous as Cesar, and as clever and 
as M. Fouquet. Poor fellow! for twelve years he has known you, 
l you, ana yet—one can hardly believe it—he has never even kissed 
ips of your fingers.” 
Tell us the reason of this cruelty, you who are all heart,” saia 
nais to La Valliére. 

will explain it by a single word—virtue. You will perhaps deny the 
ence of virtue ?” 
come, Louise, tell us the truth,” said Aure, taking her by the hand. 
What do you wish me to tel! you ?” cried La Valliére. 
Whatever you like ; but it will be useless for you to say anything, for 
rsist in my opinion of you. A coquette from instinct; in other 
ls, as I have already said, and I say it again, the most dangerous cf 
oquettes.” 
Dh! no, no; for pity’s sake do not believe that !” 
What ! twelve years of extreme severity.” 

tow can that be, since twelve years .go I was only five years old. 
freedom of the child cannot surely be added to the young girl's 
unt.” 
Well ! you are now seventeen ; three years instead of twelve. During 
e three years you h:ve remained constantly and unchangeably cruel. 
inst you are arrayed the silent shades of Blois, the meetings when you 
ently conned the stars together, the evening wanderings beneath the 
tain-trees, his impassioned twenty years speaking to your fourteen 
mers, the fire of his glances addresscd to yourself.” 
Yes, yes ; but so it is !’———“ Impossible !” 
But why impossible ?” 
Tell us something credible, and we will believe you.” 

Yet if you were to suppose one thing.”———“ What is that ?” 
Suppose that I thought I was in love, and that I am not.” 

What ! not in love !” 

If I have acted in a different manner to what others do when they are 
re, it is because I do not love ; and because my hour has not yet 
eg 
Louise, Louise,” said Montalais, “take care, or I will remind you of 
‘remark you made just now. Raoul is not here ; do not overwhelm 
‘while he is absent ; be charitable, and if, on closer inspection, you 
k you do noi -vve him, tell him so, poor fellow !” and she began to 
h. 

Louise pitied M. de Guiche just now,” said Athenais ; “would it be 
sible to detect the explanation of the indifference for the one in this 
passion for the other?” 
Say what you please,” said La Vallitre, sadly ; “upbraid me as you 
, since you do not understand me.” 

Oh! oh!” replied Montalais, “temper, sorrow, and tears; we are 
thing, Louise, and are not, I asure you, quite the monsters you suppose. 
ik at the proud Athenais, as she is called ; she does not love M. de 
ntespan, it is true, but she would be in despair if M. de Montespan 
e not to love her. Look at me; I laugh at M. Malicorne, but the poor 
»v whom I laugh at knows very well when he may be permitted to 
ss his lips upon my hand. And yet the eldest of us is not twenty yet. 
at a future for us ?” 


THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


534 


“ Silly, silly girls !? murmured Louise. ¥" 
“You are quite right,” said Montalais ; “and you alone have spoki 
words of wisdom.” “ Certainly.” Pei oe 
“TJ do not dispute it,” replied Athenais. “And so it is positive you : 
not love poor M. de Bragelonne ?” | 
“ Perhaps she does,” said Montalais ; “she is not yet quite sure of | 
But, in any case, listen, Athenais : if M. de Bragelonne becomes free, 
will give you a little friendly advice.”——“ What 1s that ?” | 
“ To look at him well before you decide in favour of M. de Montespar 
“Oh! in that way of considering the subject, M. de Bragelonne isn, 
the only one whom one could look at with pleasure ; M. de Guiche f 
instance has his value also.” | 
“He did not distinguish himself this evening,” said Montalais ; “and 
know from very good authority that Madame thought him unbearable.” 
“M. de Saint-Aignan produced a most brilliant effect, and I am su 
that more than one person who saw him dance this evening will not soj 
forget him. Do you not think so, La Valliere ?” 

“Why do you ask me? I did not see him, nor do I know him.” 

“ What ! you did not see M. de Saint-Aignan? You do not know him 

oe No.” 

“ Come, come, do not affect a virtue more extravagantly excessive th 
our fiertés ; you have eyes I suppose ?” “Excelent. 

“Then you must have seen all those who danced this evening.” 

“Ves, nearly all.” — 

“ That is a very impertinent ‘nearly all’ for some.” 

“Vou must take it for what it is worth.” 

“Very well ; now, among all those gentlemen whom you saw, which 
you prefer.” 

“Yes,” said Montalais, “is it M. de Saint-Aignan, or M. de Guiche, 
: »”_—“T prefer no one ; I thought them all about the same.” 

“ Do you mean, then, that among that brilliant assembly, the first co 
in the world, no one pleased you ?” | 

“T do not say that.”—~“ Tell us, then, who your ideal is > 

“Tt is not an ideal being.” -—“‘ He exists, then ?” : | 

“In very truth,” exclaimed La Vallitre, aroused and excited, “I can} 
understand you at all. What! you who havea heart as I have, eyes 
I have, and yet you speak of M. de Guiche, and of M. de Saint-Aign 
when the king was there.” These words, uttered in a precipitate manr 
and in an agitated, fervid tone of voice, made her two companions, betw« 
whom she was seated, exclaim in a manner which terrified her, “1 
king 1” 

La Valliare buried her face inher hands. “ Yes,” she murmured ; “ 
king ! the king ! Have you ever seen any one to be compared to the kin 

“You were right just now in saying you had excellent eyes, Louise, | 
you see agreat distance ; too far indeed. Alas! the king is not one uy 
whom our poor eyes have a right to be fixed.” 

“ That is too true,” cried La Vallitre ; “it is not the privilege of all eyes 
gaze upon the sun ; but I will look upon him, even were I to be blinc 
in doing so.” At this moment, and as though caused by the words wh’ 
had just escaped La Valliére’s lips, a rustling of leaves, and of that wh) 
sounded like some silken material, was heard behind the adjoining bu 
The young girls hastily rose, almost terrified out of their senses. T! 
ea saw the leaves move, without observing what it was that stir! 
them. | 

“It is a wolf or a wild boar,” cried Montalais ; “fly! fly!” The th 


M 


WHAT WAS SAID UNDER THE ROYAL OAK. 535 


s, in the very extremity of terror, fled by the first path which presented 
lf, and did not stop until they had reached the verge of the wood. 
sre, breathless, leaning against each other, feeling their hearts throb 
lly, they endeavoured to collect their senses, but could only succeed 
doing so after the lapse of some minutes. Perceiving at last the 
its from the windows of the chateau, they decided to walk towards 
m. La Vallitre was exhausted with fatigue, and Aure and Athenais 
‘e obliged to support her. 

We have escaped well,” said Montalais. 

‘I am greatly afraid,” said La Vallicre, “that it was something worse 
na wolf. For my part, and I speak as I think, I should have preferred 
jave run the risk of being devoured alive by some wild animal than to 
re been listened to and overheard. Fool, fool, that I am! How could I 
ve thought, how could I have said what I did.” And saying this, her 
id bowed like the head of a reed ; she felt her limbs fail, and all her 
ength abandoning her, she glided almost inanimate from the arms of 
- companions, and sank down upon the grass. 


be CHAPTER CXVII. 

| THE KINGS UNEASINESS. 

"1 us leave poor La Valliére, who had fainted in the arms of her two 
mpanions, and return to the precincts of the royal oak. The young 
ls had hardly run twenty paces, when the sound which had so much 
irmed them was renewed among the branches. A man’s figure might indis- 
.ctly be perceived, and putting the branches of the bushes aside, he ap- 
ared upon the verge of the wood, and perceiving that the place was 
pty, burst out into a peal of laughter It is useless to say that the form 

question was that of a young and handsome man, who immediately 
ade a sign to another, who thereupon made his appearance. 

“ Well, sire,” said the second figure, advancing timidly, “has your majesty 
it our young sentimentalists to flight.” 

“ Tt seems so,” said the king, “and you can show yourself without fear.” 
“Take care, sire ; you will be recognised.” iy 
“But I tell you they have gone.” 

“ This is a most fortunate meeting, sire ; and, if I dared offer an opinion 
_ your majesty, we ought to follow them.” 

“ They are far away by this time.” 

“ They would easily allow themselves to be overtaken, especially if they 
ew who were following them.” 

“ What do you mean by that, coxcomb that you are ?” 

“Why, one of them seems to have taken a fancy to me, and another 
»mpared you to the sun.” 

“The greater reason why w 
he sun does not show himself in the night-time.” 

“Upon my word, sire, your majesty seems to have very little curiosity. 
1 your place, I should like to know who are the two nymphs, the two 
ryads, the two hamadryads, who have so good an opinion of us.” 

“J shall know them again very well, I assure you, without running 
ter them.” “By what means ?” . 

“ By their voices, of course. They belong to the court, and the one who 
soke of me had a very sweet voice.” 

“ Ah ! your majesty permits yourself to be influenced by flattery.” 


e should not show ourselves, Saint-Aignan, 


536 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. | 


“No one will ever say it is a means you make use of.” | 
“Forgive my stupidity, sire !” 4 
“Come ; let us go and look where I told you.” 
“Is the passion, then, which your majesty confided to me, alread} 
forgotten ?” ‘ee. | 
“Oh! no, indeed. How is it possible to forget such beautiful eyes al 
Mademoiselle de la Valliére has ?” 
~ “Yet the other had so sweet a voice.” a | 
“Which one ?” ‘She who has fallen in love with the sun.” zs, 
“ M. de Saint-Aignan !” “Forgive me, sire.” S| 
“Well, I am not sorry you should believe me to be an admirer of swee| 
voices, as well as of beautiful eyes. I know you to bea terrible talker, anc 
to-morrow I shall have to pay for the confidence I have shown you.” 4 
“What do you mean, sire ?” a 
“That to-morrow every one will know that I have designs upon this, 
little La Vallitre ; but be careful, Saint-Aignan, I have confided my secre; 
to no one but you, and, if any one should speak to me about it, I shal, 
know who has betrayed my secret.” ‘ 
“You are angry, sire.” a 
““No; but you understand I do not wish to compromise the poor girl} 
“Do not be afraid, sire.” . 5. 
“ You promise me, then ??——“T give you my word of honour.” fe | 
Excellent,” thought the king, laughing to himself; “now every on¢ 
will know to-morrow that I have been running about after La Valliére to! 
night.” f 
Then, endeavouring to see where he was, he said, “Why, we have los! 
ourselves.” “ Not quite so bad as that, sire.” | 
“Where does that gate lead to ?” | 
“To the great Road-Point, sire.” | 
‘Where we were going when we heard the sound of women’s voices,” | 
“Yes, sire, and the termination of a conversation in which I had the 
honour of hearing my own name pronounced by the side of your majesty’s,'} 
“ You return to that subject very frequently, Saint-Aignan.” | 
“Your majesty will forgive me, but I am delighted to know that a womar 
exists, whose thoughts are occupied about me, without my knowledge, anc 
without having done anything to deserve it. Your majesty cannot com} 
prehend this satisfaction, for your rank and merit attract atten‘ion, anc 
compel regard.” I 
“No, no, Saint-Aignan, believe me or not, as you like,” said the king: 
leaning familiarly upon Saint-Aignan’s arm, and taking the path whict 
he thought would lead him to the chateau ; “but this candid confession 
this perfectly disinterested preference of one who will, perhaps, never at: 
tract my attention—in one word, the mystery of this adventure excites me 
and the truth is, that if I were not so taken up with La Valli¢re——” 


“ Do not let that interfere with your majesty’s intentions ; you have time 
enough before you.” 


“What do you mean ?” 

“ La Valliére is said to be very strict in her ideas.” | 

“You excite my curiosity, and I am anxious to find her again. Come 
let us walk on.” 

The king spoke untruly, for nothing, on the contrary, could make hir } 
less anxious, but he had a part to play, and so he walked on hurriedly.) 


Saint-Aignan followed him at a short distance. Suddenly the king stopped! 
the courtier followed his example, i 


i 


THE KING'S UNEASINESS. 537 
Saint-Aignan,” he said, “ do you not hear some one moaning ?” 3. 
Yes, sire, and crying, too, it seems.” 
It is in this direction,” said the king. “It sounds like the tears anu 
Of a woman.” 
Run,” said the king ; and, following a bye-path, they ran across the 
's. As they approached, the cries were more distinctly heard. 
Help, help,” exclaimed two voices. ‘The king and his companion re- 
dled their speed, and, as they approached nearer, the sighs they had 
d were changed into loud sobs. The cry of “ Help ! help !” was again 
ated ; at the sound of which the king and Saint-Aignan increased the 
dity of their pace. Suddenly, at the other side of a ditch, under the 
iches of a willow, they perceived a woman on her knees, holding 
her in her arms, who seemed to have fainted. A few paces from them, 
rd, standing in the middle of the path, was calling for assistance. 
‘eiving two gentlemen, whose rank she could not tell, her cries for 
stance were redoubled. The king, who was in advance of his com- 
on, leaped across the ditch, and reached the group at the very moment, 
n, from the end of the path which led to the chateau, a dozen persons 
> approaching, who had been drawn to the spot by the same cries which 
‘attracted the attention of the king and M. de Saint-Aignan. 
What is the matter, young ladies ’” said Louis. 
The king!” exclaimed Mademoiselle de Montalais, in her astonishment, 
ng La Valliére’s head fall upon the ground. 
Yes, it is the king; but that is no reason why you should abandon 
-companion. Who is she?” 
It is Mademoiselle de la Valliére, sire.” 
Mademoiselle de la Valliére !” 
Yes, sire, she has just fainted.” 
Poor child !” said the king. “ Quick, quick, fetch a surgeon.” But 
fever great the anxiety with which the king had pronounced these 
ds may have seemed to others, he had not so carefully watched over 
self, that they appeared, as well as the gesture which accompanied 
a, somewhat cold to Saint- Aignan, to whom the king had confided the 
affection with which she had inspired him. 
Saint-Aignan,” continued the king, “ watch over Mademoiselle de la 
iére, I beg. Send for a surgeon. I will hasten forward and inform 
dame of the accident which has befallen one of her maids of honour.” 
, In fact, while M. de Saint-Aignan was busily engaged in making 
nabs for carrying Mademoiselle de la Valliére to the chateau, the 


‘hurried forward, happy to have an opportunity of approaching Madame, 
of speaking to her under some colourable pretext. Fortunately, a 
lage was passing ; the coachman was told to stop, and the persons 
were inside, having been informed of the accident, eagerly gave up 
r seats to Mademoiselle de la. Valli¢re. The current of fresh air pro- 
ed by the rapid motion of the carriage, soon recalled her to her senses. 
‘ing reached the chateau, she was able, though very weak, to alight 
1 the carriage ; and, with the assistance of Athenais, and of Montalais, 
»ach the inner apartments. They made her sit down in one of the 
ins on the ground-floor. After awhile, as the accident had not pro- 
»d much effect upon those who had been walking, the promenade was 
‘med. During this time the king had found Madame beneath a tree, 
. over-hanging branches, and had seated himself by her side. 
Take care, sire,” said Henrietta to him, in a low tone, “you do not 
v yourself as indifferent as you should be,” 


: THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. - 
53 ca 
las !” replied the king, in the same tone, “I much fear we ha 
“/ _d into an agreement above our strength to keep.” He then add 
€floud, “ You have heard of the accident, I suppose 2” | 
" What accident ?” | 
“Oh ! in seeing you I forgot that I had come expressly to tell you of 
I am, however, painfully affected by it ; one of your maids of hono 
Mademoiselle de la Valliére, has just fainted.” | 
“Indeed! poor girl,” said the princess, quietly, “what was the ca 
Godt?” | 
She then added, in an undertone, “ You forget, sire, that you wish othe 

to believe in your passion for this girl, and yet you remain here while 
is almost dying, perhaps, elsewhere.” | 
“Ah ! madame,” said the king, sighing, “how much more perfect yi 
are in your part than I am, and how well you think of everything!” 
He then rose, saying loud enough for every one to hear him, “ Pern 
me to leave you, madame ; my uneasiness is very great, and I wish to’ 
quite certain, myself, that proper attention has been given to Mademoise 
de la Valli¢re.” And the king left again to return to La Vallicre, wl 
those who had been present commented upon the king’s remark :—“ jf 
uneasiness is very great.” 


ee 


CHAPTER CXVIII. 
(THE KING'S SECR EF 


ON his way Louis met the Comte de Saint-Aignan. “ Well, Saint-Aign 
he inquired, with affected interest, “how is the invalid » 


“Really, sire,” stammered Saint-Aignan, “to my shame, I confess ] ( 
not know.” 


loquacious wood-nymphs, and I confess that my attention has been take 
away from other matters.” 

“Ah !” said the king, eagerly, “ you have found, then ——~” 

“The one who deigned to speak of me in such advantageous term: 
and, having found mine, I was searching for yours, sire, when I had th 
happiness to meet your majesty.” 

“Very well ; but Mademoiselle de la Vallidre before everything else} 
said the king, faithful to the character he had assumed. 

“Oh! our charming invalid,” said Saint-Aignan ; “how fortunately hj 
fainting came on, since your majesty had already occupied yourself abo 
Beis 

“What is the name of your fair lady, Saint-Aignan ? Is it a secret ?| 

“It ought to be a secret, and a very great one, even ; but your majesty 
well aware that no secret can possibly exist for you.” 

“Well, what is her name ?” 

“ Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente.” “Is she pretty ?” 

“ Exceedingly so, sire; and I recognised the voice which pronounce}; 
iny Name in such tender accents. I then accosted her, questioned her ¢} 
well as I was able to do, in the midst of the crowd: and she told mii 
without suspecting anything, that a little while ago she was under th 
great oak, with her two friend 


had terrified them, and made them run away,” 


THE KING’S SECRET. 539 


i, 
But,” inquired the king, anxiously, “ what are the names of these two 
ids °” 

Sire,” said Saint-Aignan, “ will your majesty send me forthwith to the 
tille ?”--—‘* What for ?” 

Because I am an egotist and a fool. My surprise was so great at 
1 a conquest, and at so fortunate a discovery, that I went no further 
1y inquiries. Besides, I did not think that your majesty would attach 
very great importance to what you heard, knowing how n.uch your 
ntion was taken up by Mademoiselle de la Valli¢re ; and then, Made- 
lselle de Tonnay Charente left me precipitately, to return to Mademoi- 
2 de Ja Valliére.” 

Let us hope, then, that I shall be as fortunate as yourself, Come, 
at-Aignan.” 

Your majesty is ambitious, I perceive, and does not wish to allow any 
quest to escape you. Well, I assure you that I will conscientiously 
about my inquiries ; and, moreover, from one of the three Graces we 
ll learn the names of the others, and, by the name, the secret.” 

I, too,” said the king, “only require to hear her voice to know it 
in. Come, let us say no more about it, but show me where poor La 
liére is.” 

‘Well, thought Saint-Aignan, “the king’s regard is beginning to dis- 
y itself, and for that girl, too. It is extraordinary ; I should never have 
ieved it.” And with this thought passing through his mind, he showed 
king the room where La Valli¢re had been taken ; the king entered, 
owed by Saint-Aignan. In a low room, near a large window looking 
‘upon the gardens, La Valliére, reclining in a large arm-chair, inhaled 
deep draughts the perfumed evening breeze. From the loosened body 
yer dress, the Jace fell in tumbled folds, mingling with the tresses of her 
wutiful fair hair, which lay scattered upon her shoulders. Her languish- 
- eyes were filled with tears ; she seemed as lifeless as those beautiful 
jons of our dreams, which pass before the closed eyes of the sleeper, 
'f opening their wings without moving them, unclosing their lips without 
ound escaping them. The pearl-like pallor of La Vallicre possessed a 
im which it would be impossible to describe. Mental and bodily 
fering had produced upon her features a soft and noble expression of 
ef; from the perfect passiveness of her arms and bust, she more re- 
nbled one whose soul had passed away, than a living being ; she seemed 
- to hear either the whisperings of her companions, or the distant mur- 
“rs which arose from the neighbourhood. She seemed to be communing 
hin herself; and her beautiful, slender, and delicate hands trembled 
im time to time, as though from the contact of some invisible touch. 
le was so completely absorbed in her reverie, that the king entered with- 
: her perceiving him. Ata distance he gazed upon her lovely face, upon 
ich the moon shed its pure silvery light. 

“Good Heavens!” he exclaimed, with a terror he could not control, 
he is dead.” 

“No, sire,” said Montalais, in a low voice; “on the contrary, she is 
tter Are you not better, Louise ?” 

But Louise did not answer. “Louise,” continued Montalais, “the king 
5 deigned to express his uneasiness on your account.” 

“The king !” exclaimed Louise, starting up abruptly, as if a stream of 
» had darted through her frame to her heart ; “the king uneasy about 
» ??—_—_“ Yes,” said Montalais. 

“The king is here, then?” said La Valliéxe, not venturing to look 
and her. 


540 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“That voice! that voice !” whispered Louis, eagerly, to Saint-Aigna 
“Yes, it is so,” replied Saint-Aignan ; “ your majesty is right ; it is s} 
who declared her love for the sun.” 
“Hush !” said the king. And then approaching La Valliére, he sail 
“You are not well, Mademoiselle de la Vallitre? Just now, indeed, in tl 
park, I saw that you had fainted. How were you attacked 2” bial 
“ Sire,” stammered out the poor child, pale and trembling, “I really ¢ 
not know.” : 
“You have been walking too much,” said the king; “and | 


perhaps--—” | 
“No, sire,” said Montalais, eagerly, answering for her friend, “it cou 
not be from fatigue, for we passed part of the evening seated beneath | 
royal oak.” FE 
“Under the royal oak?’ returned the king, starting. “I was nm 
deceived ; it is as I thought.” And he directed a look of intelligence ¢ 
the comte. 
“Yes,” said Saint-Aignan, “ under the royal oak, with Mademoiselle ¢ 
Tonnay-Charente.” 
‘How do you know that ?” inquired Montalais. ae 
“In avery simple way. Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente told meso 
“In that case, she probably told you the cause of Mademoiselle de 
Valli¢re fainting ?” 
“Why, yes ; she told me something about a wolf or a robber. I forg¢ 
precisely which.” La Valliére listened, her eyes fixed, her bosom heaving 
as if, gifted with an acuteness of perception, she foresaw a portion of th 
truth. Louis imagined this attitude and agitation to be the consequence 
of a terror but partially removed. “ Nay, fear nothing,” he said, with | 
rising emotion which he could not conceal; “the wolf which terrified yo’ 
so much was simply a wolf with two legs.” 
“It was a man, then,” said Louise ; “it was a man who was listening,’ 
“ Suppose it were, mademoiselle, what great evil was there in his havin; 
listened? Is it likely that, even in your own opinion, you would have sai 
anything which could not have been listened to ?” ; 
La Vallitre wrung her hands, and hid her face in them, as if to hide he 
blushes. “In Heaven’s name,” she said, “who was concealed there? wh 
was listening ?” 
The king advanced towards her, to take hold of one of her hands. “I 
was I,” he said, bowing with marked respect. “Is it likely I could haw 
frightened you?” La Valliére uttered a loud cry ; for the second time he 
strength forsook her ; and, cold, moaning, and in utter despair, she agai 
fell apparently lifeless in her chair. The king had just time to hold ou 
his arm; so that she was partially supported by him. Mademoiselle d 
Tonnay-Charente and Montalais, who stood a few paces from the kin; 
and La Valliére, motionless and almost petrified at the recollection of thei 
conversation with La Valliére, did not think even of offering their assist 
ance to her, feeling restrained by the presence of the king, who, with one 
knee on the ground, held La Valliére round the waist with his arm. 
“You heard, sire?” murmured Athenais. But the king did not reply 
he remained with his eyes fixed upon La Vallitre’s half-closed eyes, anc 


_ “Of course,” replied Saint-Aignan, who, on his side, hoping that Made: 


THE KINGS SECRET, S41 


¢ at Saint-Aignan, and fled. Montalais, with more courage, advanced 
riedly towards Louise, and received her from the king’s hands, who 
; already fast losing his presence of mind, as he felt his face covered by 
perfumed tresses of the seemingly dying girl. “ Excellent,” said Saint- 
aan. ‘This is indeed an adventure ; and it will be my own fault if I 
not the first to relate it.” 
he king approached him, and, with a trembling voice and a passionate 
ure, said, “ Not a syllable, comte.” 
he poor king forgot that, only an hour before, he had given him a 
ilar recommendation, but with the very opposite intention ; namely, that 
comte should be indiscreet. It was a matter of course, that the latter 
ymmendation was quite as unnecessary as the former. Half an hour 
rwards, everybody in Fontainebleau knew that Mademoiselle de la Val- 
a had had a conversation under the royal oak with Montalais and Ton- 
Charente, and that in this conversation she had confessed her affection 
the king. It was known, also, that the king, after having manifested 
uneasiness with which Mademoiselle de la Vallitre’s health had in- 
‘ed him, had turned pale, and trembled very much as he received the 
utiful girl fainting in his arms ; so that it was quite agreed among the 
‘tiers, that the greatest event of the period had just been revealed ; 
t his majesty loved Mademoiselle de la Vallicre, and that, consequently, 
msieur could now sleep in perfect tranquillity. It was this even, that 
_queen-mother, as surprised as the others by this sudden change, has- 
ed to tell the young queen and Philippe d Orleans. Only she set to 
tk in a different manner, by attacking them in the following way :—To 
: daughter-in-law she said, “See now, Thérése, how very wrong you 
re to accuse the king ; now it is said he is devoted to some other 
“son ; why should there be any greater truth in the report of to-day than 
that of yesterday, or in that of yesterday than in that of to-day” To 
»sieur, in relating to him the adventure of the royal oak, she said, “ Are 
1 not very absurd in your jealousies, my dear Philip? It is asserted 
it the king is madly in love with that little La Valliére. Say nothing of 
to your wife ; for the queen will know all about it very soon.” ‘This 
‘er confidential communication had an immediate result. Monsieur, 
.o had regained his composure, went triumphantly to look after his wife, 
J, as it was not yet midnight, and the /é¢e was to continue until two in 
» morning, he offered her his hand for a promenade. At the end ofa 
wv paces, however, the first thing he did was to disobey his mother’s in- 
ictions. 
*Do not go and tell any one, the queen least of all,” he said mysteri- 
sly, “ what people say about the king.” 
“What do they say about him ?” inquired Madame. 
% That my brother has fallen suddenly in love.” 
“With whom ?” 
“With Mademoiselle de la Vallitre.” As it was dark, Madame could 
tile at her ease. 
« Ah !” she said, “and how long is it since this has been the case x 
“ For some days, soit seems. But that was nothing but pure nonsense, 
tit is only this evening that he has revealed his passion.” 
“The king shows his good taste,” said Madame, “ and in my opinion she 
a very charming girl.” 
“T verily believe you are jesting.” “I! in what way ro 
“Tn any case this passion will make some one very happy, even if it be 
Lily La Valli¢re herself.” 


543 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 9 


Me. 
“ Really,” continued the princess, “ you speak as if you had read into ih 
inmost recesses of La Valliére’s heart. Who has told you that she agree 
to return the king’s affection ?” 
“ And who has told you that she will not return it ?” 
“ She loves the Vicomte de Bragelonne.”—“ You think so.” 
“ She is even affianced to him.”—-—“ She was so.” 
“ What do you mean ?” e | 
“ When they went to ask the king’s permission to arrange the marriag 
he refused his permission.” -—“ Refused ?” . 
“Ves, although the request was preferred’ by the Comte de la Fere hit 
self, for whom the king has the greatest regard, on account of the part 
took in your brother’s restorauon, and in other events also, which haj 
pened_a long time ago.” a 
“Well! the poor lovers must wait until the king is pleased to chang 
his opinion ; they are young, and there is time enough.” 
“ But, dear me,” said Philip, laughing, “I perceive that you do not kno 
the best part of the affair.”,—-—“ No !” 
“That by which the king was most deeply touched.” 
“The king, do you say, has been deeply touched ?” 
10 tne very Neart. 
“But how ?—in what manner ?—tell me directly.” 
“By an adventure, the romance of which cannot be equalled.” 
“You know how I love such adventures, and yet you keep me waiting 
said the princess, impatiently. 
“Well, then——” and Monsieur paused. 
‘“‘T am listening.” 
‘* Under the royal oak—you know where the royal oak is ?” 
“What can that matter? Under the royal oak, you were saying.” 
“Well! Mademoiselle de la Valliére, fancying herself alone with her t 
friends, revealed to them her affection for the king.” y 
“Ah !” said Madame, beginning to be uneasy, “her affection for tk 
king P”——“* Yes.” i 
‘When was this ?’——“ About an hour ago.” | 
Madame started, and then said, “And no one knew of this affection ? 
Pao ome: | 
“ Not even his majesty 2” | 
~“Noteven his majesty. The little creature kept her secret most strict 
to herself, when suddenly it proved stronger than herself, and so escap 
Wer.” 
“And from whom did you get this absurd tale ?” 
“Why, as everybody else did, from La Vallitre herself, who confess 
her love to Montalais and Tonnay-Charente, who were her companions,’ 
Madame stopped suddenly, and by a hasty movement let go her hu 
band’s hand. ‘ 
‘Did you say it was an hour ago she made this confession ?”? Madam 
inquired. 4 
‘* About that time.” 
“Ts the king aware of it !” 
“Why, that is the very thing which constitutes the whole romance ( 
the affair, for the king was behind the royal oak with Saint-Aignan, an 
he heard the whole of the interesting conversation without losing a sing 
word of it.” ; 
Madame felt struck to the heart, saying incautiously, “ But I have see 
the king since, and he never told me a word about it.” 


THE KING’S SECRET: $43 


f course,” said Monsieur; “he took care not to speak of it to you him. 
since he recommended every one not to say a word about it to you.” 
What do you mean ?” said Madame, irritated. 
“mean that they wished to keep you in ignorance of the affair alto- 
er,”——“ But why should they wish to conceal it from me i 
7rom the fear that your friendship for the young queen might induce 
to say something about it to her, nothing more.” 
adame hung down her head ; her feelings were grievously wounded. 
could not enjoy a moment’s repose until she had met the king. Asa 
is, most naturally, the very last person in his kingdom who knows 
cis said about him, in the same way that a lover is the only one who 
.pt in ignorance of what is said about his mistress, therefore, when the 
perceived Madame, who was looking for him, he approached her 
ewhat disturbed, but still gracious and attentive in his manner. 
lame waited for hitn to speak about La Valliére first ; but as he did 
speak of her, she said, “ And the poor girl ?” 
What poor girl?” said the king. 
a Vallidre. Did you not tell me, sire, that she had fainted 2” 
She is still very ill,” said the king, affecting the greatest indifference. 
But surely that will prejudicially affect the rumour you were going te 
ad; sire ?” 
What rumour ?” “That your attention was taken up by her.” 
Oh,” said the king, carelessly, “I trust it will be reported all the same.” 
‘adame still waited : she wished to know if the king would speak to 
of the adventure of the royal oak ; but the king did not saya word 
at it. Madame, on her-side, did not open her lips about the adventure, 
at the king took leave of her without having reposed the slightest con- 
ace in her. Hardly had she seen the king move away, than she set out 
earch of Saint-Aignan. Saint-Aignan was never very difficult to find ; 
vas like the smaller vessels which always follow in the wake of, and 
‘enders to, the larger ships. Saint-Aignan was the very man whom 
Jame needed in her then state of mind ; and as for him, he only looked 
worthier ears than others he had found, to have an opportunity of re- 
nting the event with all its details ; and therefore he did not spare 
dame a single word of the whole affair. When he had finished, 
Jame said to him,—‘“‘ Confess, now, that it is alla charming invention.” 
Invention, no ; a true story, yes.” 
Confess, whether invention or true story, that it was told to you as you 
le told it to me, but that you were not there.” 
‘Upon my honour, Madame, I was there.” 
‘And you think that these confessions may have made an impression 
m the king ?” 
Certainly, as those of Mademoiselle Tonnay-Charente did upon me,” 
lied Saint-Aignan ; “do not forget, Madame, that Mademoiselle de la 
litre compared the king to the sun ; that was flattering enough.” 
The king does not permit himself to be influenced by such flatteries.” 
“Madame, the king is just as much man as sun, and I saw that plain 
ugh just now when La Vallitre fell into his arms.” 
La Valliére fell into the king’s arms !” 
‘Oh, it was the most graceful picture possible! Just imagine, La 
liére had fallen back fainting, and——” 
‘Well, what did you see? Tell me—speak 
#1 saw, what ten other people saw at the same time as myself—I saw 
t, when La Valliére fell into his arms, the king almost fainted himself.” 


1)? 


aie THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


Madame uttered a subdued cry, the only indication of her smothe) 
anger. “Thank you,” she said, laughing in a convulsive manner ; “ 
relate stories delightfully, M. de Saint. Aignan.” And she hurried aw 
alone and almost suffocated by her feelings, towards the chateau. j 


CHAPTER Cxie 
COURSES DE NUIT. 


MONSIEUR had quitted the princess in the best possible humour, a 
feeling very fatigued, had retired to his apartments, leaving every one 
finish the night as he chose. When in his room, Monsieur began to dr 
for the night with a careful attention, which displayed itself from time 
time in paroxysms of satisfaction. While his attendants were engaged 
dressing him, he sang the principal airs of the ballet which the viol 
had played, and to which the king had danced. He then summoned |} 
tailors, inspected his costumes for the next day, and, in token of his ¢ 
treme ‘satisfaction, distributed various presents among ‘them. As, howev 
the Chevalier de Lorraine, who had seen the prince return to the chate; 
entered the room, Monsieur overwhelmed him with kindness. The for 
after having saluted the prince, remained silent for a moment, like ash 
shooter who deliberates before deciding in what direction he will re 
his fire ; then, seeming to make uphis mind, he said, “‘ Have you remar 
a very singular circumstance, monseigneur ?” 

““No; what is it ?” : 

“The bad reception which his majesty, in appearance, gave the Com 
de Guiche.”——“ In appearance ?” | 

“Yes, certainly, since, in reality, he has restored him to favour.” 

“1 did not notice it,” said the prince. | 

“What! did you not remark that, instead of ordering him to return 
his exile, as would have been natural, he encouraged him in his oppositi 
by permitting him to resume his place in the ballet.” © 

“And you think the king was wrong, chevalier ?” said the prince. 

““ Are not you of my opinion, prince ?” 

“ Not altogether so, my dear chevalier ; and I think the king was qui 
right not to have made a disturbance against a poor fellow whose want 
judgment is more to be complained of than his intention.” 

“Really,” said the chevalier, “as far as I am concerned, I confess th 
this magnanimity astonishes me'to the highest degree.” 

“Why so?” inquired Philip. 

“Because I should have thought the king had been more jealous,”1 
plied the chevalier, spitefully. During the last few minutes Monsieur h; 
felt there was something of an irritating nature concealed under I 
favourite’s remarks ; this last word, however, had ignited the powder. . 

“Jealous !” exclaimed the prince— ‘jealous ! ! what do you meal 
Jealous of what, if you please—or jealous of whom ?” : 

The chevalier perceived that he had allowed one of those mischievo 
remarks to escape him, as he was sometimes in the habit of doing. FT 
endeavoured, therefore, to recall it while it was still possible to y do s 
“ Jealous of his authority,” he said, with an assumed frankness ; “ of wh 
else would you have the king be jealous } PP 

“Ah !” said the prince, “ that’s very proper.” 

“Did your royal highness,” continued the chevalier, “solicit dear r 
Guiche’s pardon ?” 


E 


COURSES DE NUIT. 545 


| 

| 
| 
b, indeed,” said Monsieur. ‘ De Guiche is an excellent fellow, and 
‘courage ; but as I do not approve of his conduct with Madame, I 
im neither harm nor good.” 

chevalier had assumed a bitterness with regard to De Guiche, as 
| attempted to do with the king ; but he thought that he perceived 
ie time for indulgence, and even for the utmost indifference, had 
1, and that, in order to throw some light on the question, it might 
essary for him to put the lamp, as the saying is, under the husband’s 
ven. 
sry well, very well,” said the chevalier to himself, “ I shall wait for 
ardes ; he will do more in one day than I in« month ; for I verily 
> that he is still more jealous than] am. ‘Then, again, it is not 
ardes even whom I require, so much as that some event or another 
_ happen ; and in the whole of this affair I see none. That De Guiche 
ed after he had been sent away is certainly serious enough, but all 
ousness disappears when I learn that De Guiche has returned at the 
yoment Madame troubles herself no longer about him. _ Madame, in 
3 occupied with the king, that is clear ; but she will not be so much 
- if, as it is asserted, the king has ceased to occupy himself about her. 
ssult of the whole matter is, to remain perfectly quiet, and await the 
l of some new caprice, and let that decide the whole affair.” And the 
lier thereupon settled himself resignedly in the arm-chair in which 
ieur permitted him to seat himself in his presence ; and, having no 

spiteful or malicious remarks to make, the consequence was that 
\evalier’s wit seemed to have deserted him. Most fortunately, Mon- 
was endowed with great good humour, and he had enough for two, 
he time arrived for dismissing his servants and gentlemen of the 
er, and he passed into his sleeping apartment. Ashe withdrew, he 
d the chevalier to present his compliments to Madame, and say that, 
: night was cool, Monsieur, who was afraid of the toothache, would 

nture out again into the park during the remainder of the evening. 
thevalier entered the princess’s apartments at the very moment she 
-d them herself. He acquitted himself faithfully of the commission 
had been entrusted to him, and, in the first place, remarked the in- 
ence and annoyance with which Madame received her husband’s 
‘unication—a circumstance which appeared to him fraught with 
hing quite fresh. If Madame had been about to leave her apart- 
; with that strangeness of manner about her, he would have followed 
but Madame was returning to them ; there was nothing to be done, 
ore he turned upon his heel like an unemployed heron, seemed to 
on earth, air, and water about it, shook his head, and walked away 
anically in the direction of the gardens. He had hardly gone a 
‘ed paces when he met two young men, walking arm-in-arm, with 
heads bent down, and idly kicking the small stones out of their path 
sy walked on, plunged in thought. It was De Guiche and De Brage- 
, the sight of whom, as it always did, produced upon the chevalier, 
ctively, a feeling of great repugnance. He did not, however, the less, 
it account, salute them with a very low bow, and which they returned 
nterest. Then, observing that the park was becoming thinner, that 
Juminations began to burn out, and that the morning breeze was 
g in, he turned to the left, and entered the chateau again, by one of 
naller courtyards. The others turned aside to the right, and con- 
1 on their way towards the large park. As the chevalier was ascend- 
ie side staircase, which led to the private entrance, he saw a woman 

| 35 


545 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


followed by another, make her appearance under the arcade whe 
from the small to the large courtyard. The two women walked so} 
that the rustling of their dresses could be distinguished in the cam) 


of the night. The style of their mantelets, their graceful figures, a 1} 
terious yet haughty carriage which distinguished them both, especially} 
one who walked first, struck the chevalier. 

“T certainly know those two persons,” said he to himself, pausing uy 
the top step of the small staircase. Then, as with the instinct of a bli 
hound, he was about to follow them, one of his servants who had }} 
running after him, arrested his attention. | 

‘‘ Monsieur,” he said, “the courier has arrived.” 

“Very well,” said the chevalier, “there is time enough; to-moi 
will do.” 4 

“ There are some urgent letters which you would be glad to see, perhg| 

“Where from ?” inquired the chevalier. | 

“ One from England, and the other from Calais ; the latter arrivec 
express, and seems of great importance.” ) 

‘From Calais! Who the deuce can have to write to me from Calais 

“T think I can recognise the handwriting of your friend the C@ 
de Wardes.” j 

“Oh!” cried the chevalier, forgetting his intention of acting the, 
“in that case I will come up at once.” This he did, while the two unkn 
ladies disappeared at the end of the court opposite to the one by w 
they had just entered. We shall now follow them, and leave the chev 
undisturbed to his correspondence. When they had arrived at the g 
of trees, the foremost of the two halted, somewhat out of breath, and, | 
tiously raising her hood, said, “Are we still far from the tree ?” i 

“Yes, madame, more than five hundred paces ; but pray rest awl 
you will not be able to walk much longer at this pace.” 

“Vou are right,” said the princess, for it was she; and she le: 
against a tree. “ And now,” she resumed, after having recovered her bre 
‘¢tell me the whole truth, and conceal nothing from me.” 

“ Oh, madame,” said the young girl, “ you are already angry with n 

“No, my dear Athenais ; reassure yourself, 1 am in no way angry 
you. After all, these things do not concern me personally. You are ans 
about what you may have said under the oak: you are afraid of ha 
offended the king, and I wish to tranquillize you by ascertaining mys 
it were possible you could have been overheard.” 

“Oh, yes, madame, the king was so close to us.” 

“Still, you were not speaking so loud that some of your remarks | 
not have been lost.” 

“We thought we were quite alone, madame.” | 

“There were three of you, you say ?” 

“Ves; La Valliére, Montalais, and myself.” 

“ And you, individually, spoke in a light manner of the king ?” 

“J am afraid so. Should such be the case, will your highness have 
kindness to make my peace with his majesty ?” 

“If there should be any occasion for it, I promise you to do so. 
ever, as I have already told you, it will be better not to anticipate evil 
to be quite sure that evil has been committed. The night is now very ¢ 
and the darkness is still greater under those large trees. It is not li 
you were recognised by the king. To inform him of it, by being the 
to speak, is to denounce yourself.” | 

“ Oh, madame, madame ! if Mademoiselle de la Valli¢re were reé 


tet et 


COURSES DE NUIT. 547 


, | must have been recognised also. Besides, M. de Saint-Aignan 
ot leave a doubt on the subject.” 

hid you, then, say anything very disrespectful of the king ?” 

‘ot at all so: it was one of the others who made some very flattering 
ks about the king ; and my remarks will have been so much in con- | 
with hers.” 

‘hat Montalais is such a giddy girl,” said Madame. 

t was not Montalais. Montalais said nothing; it was La Valliére.” 
idame started as if she had not known it perfectly already. “No, 
she said, “the king cannot have heard. Besides, we will now try the 
‘iment for which we came out. Show me the oak. Do you know 
2 it is ?”? she continued.——“ Alas ! madame, yes.” 

ind you can find it again ?’—-—-“ With my eyes shut.” 

‘ery well ; sit down on the bank where you were, where La Vallitre 
and speak in the tone and to the same effect as you did before; I 
-onceal myself in the thicket, and if I can hear you, I will tell you 
-—‘“* Yes, madame.” 

f, therefore, you really spoke sufficiently loud for the king to have 
i you, in that case——” 

aenais seemed to await the conclusion of the phrase with some anxiety. 
n that case,” said Madame, in a suffocated voice, arising doubtless 
-her hurried progress ; “in that case, I forbid you ” And Ma- 
+ again increased her pace. Suddenly, however, she stopped. “An 
occurs to me,” she said. 

. good idea, no doubt, madame,” replied Mademoiselle de Tonnay- 
ente. 

Aontalais must be as much embarrassed as La Valliére and yourself.” 
ess so, for she is less compromised, having said less.” 

“hat does not matter ; she will help you, I dare say, by deviating a 
from the exact truth.” 

“specially if she knows that your highness is kind enough to interest 
self about me.” 

Very well; I think I have discovered what we want.” 

Tow delightful.” 

7ou will say that all three of you were pérfectly well aware that the 
/was behind the tree, or behind the thicket, whichever it might have 
; and that you knew M. de Saint-Aignan was there too.” 

7es, madame.” ; 
“or you cannot disguise it from yourself, Athenais, Saint-Aignan takes. 
ntage of some very flattering remarks which you made about him.” 
Nell, madame, you see very well that one can be overheard,” cried 
nails, ‘since M. de Saint-Aignan overheard us.” 

adame bit her lips, for she had thoughtlessly committed herself. 
, you know Saint-Aignan’s character very well,” she said; “the 
ir the king shows him almost turns his brain, and he talks at random; 
only that, he very often invents. That is not the question ; the fact 
ins, Did or did not the king overhear ?” J 

Yh yes, madame, he did hear,” said Athenais in despair. 

n that case, do what I said: maintain boldly that all three of you 
7—mind, all three of you, for if there is a doubt about any one of 
there will be a doubt about all,—persist, I say, that you all three 
7 that the king and M. de Saint-Aignan were there, and that you 
ed to amuse yourselves at the expense of those who were listening.” 
Dh, madame, at the king’s expense ; we never dare say that !” 


35—2 


548 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“It is a simple jest ; an innocent deception readily permitted in y 
girls, whom men wish to take by surprise. In this manner everythi 
explained. What Montalais said of Malicorne, a mere jest ; what 
said of M. de Saint-Aignan, a mere jest, too ; and what La Valliéren 
have said of——” 

“And which she would have given anything to have recalled.” 

“Are you sure of that ?”—~—“ Perfectly so.” : 

“Very well, an additional reason, therefore. Say the whole affair 
a mere joke. M, de Malicorne will have no occasion to get out of ter 
M. de Saint-Aignan will be completely put out of countenance, he 
be laughed at instead of you ; and, lastly, the king will be punishec 
a curiosity which was unworthy of his rank. Let people laugh a litt 
the king in this affair, and I do not think he will complain of it.” 

“Oh, madame, you are indeed an angel of goodness and sense.” 

“It is to my own advantage.”——“ In what way ?” | 

“Do you ask me why it is to my advantage to spare my maid 
honour the remarks, annoyances, and perhaps even calumnies, wi 
might follow? Alas! you well know that the court has no indulgence 
this sort of peccadilloes. But we have now been walking for some ti 
shall we be long before we reach it ?” 

“About fifty or sixty paces further ; turn to the left, madame, if | 
please.” re 

“And so you are sure of Montalais ?” said madame. 

“Oh, certainly.” ——“ Will she do what you ask her ?” 

“Everything, She will be delighted.” 

“As for La Valliére ” ventured the princess. 

“ Ah, there will be some difficulty with her, madame; she would s 
to tell a falsehood.” | 

“Yet, when it is her interest to do so « 

“T am afraid that that would not make the slightest difference in| 
idéas,” 

“Yes, yes,” said Madame, “I have been already told that ; she is o 
those over-nice and affectedly particular persons, who place heaven in 
foreground to conceal themselves behind it. But if she refuse to t 
falsehood—as she will expose herself to the jestings of the whole cou 
as she will have annoyed the king by a confession as ridiculous as it 
immodest,— Mademoiselle Labaume Leblanc de la Valliére will th 
it but proper that I should send her back again to her pigeons in] 


SA 


| 


royal oak. 
“ Here we are,” said Tonnay-Charente. 
“We shall soon learn if one can overhear,” replied Madame. 
“Hush !” said the young girl, holding Madame back with a hurrl 
gesture, entirely forgetful of her companion’s rank. Madame stopped, 
“You see that you can hear,” said Athenais. | 
“ How ?»—_“ Listen.” q 
Madame held her breath, and in fact, the following words, pronounce 
by a gentle and melancholy voice, floated towards them :-— 2 


COURSES DE NUIT. 549 


tell. you, vicomte, I tell you, I love her madly ; I tell you I love her 
straction.” 

idame started at the voice, and, beneath her hood, a bright joyous 
_ilkumined her features. It was she who now stayed her companion, 
with a light footstep leading her some twenty paces back, that is to 
out of the reach of the voice, she said: “remain there, my dear 
nais, and let no one surprise us. I think it may be you they are con- 
ng about.” ——“‘ Me, madame ?” 

yes, you; or rather your adventure. I will go and listen ; if we were 
there, we should be discovered. Go and fetch Montalais, and then 
n and wait for me with her at the entrance of the forest.” And then, 
thenais hesitated, she again said “Go!” in a voice which did not 
tof reply. Athenais thereupon arranged her dress so as to prevent 
stling being heard, and, by a path which crossed the group of trees, 
egained the flower-garden. As for Madame, she concealed herself in 
hicket, leaning her back against a gigantic chestnut tree, one of the 
ches of which had been cut in a manner to form a seat, and waited 
. full of anxiety and apprehension. ‘“Now,’she said, “since one can 
from this place, let us listen to what M. de Bragelonne and that other 
y-in-love fool, the Comte de Guiche, have to say about me.” 


CHAPTER .CXX. 


WHICH MADAME ACQUIRES A PROOF THAT LISTENERS CAN HEAR 
WHAT IS SAID. 


RE was a inoment’s silence, as if all the mysterious sounds of night 
hushed to listen, at the same time as Madame, to the youthful and 
ionate disclosures of De Guiche. 
was Raoul who was about to speak. He leaned indolently against 
trunk of the large oak, and replied in his sweet and musical voice, 
1s, my dear Guiche, it is a great misfortune.” 
Yes,” cried the latter, “ great indeed.” 
You do not understand me, Guiche. I say that it is a great misfortune 
‘ou, not that of loving, but that of not knowing how to conceal your 
»____“ What do you mean ?” said Guiche. 
Yes, you do not perceive one thing; namely, that it is no longer to 
only friend you have,—in other words,—to a man who would rather 
than betray you ; you do not perceive, I say, that it is no longer to 
‘only friend that you confide your passion, but to the first one who 
‘oaches you.” 
Are you mad, Bragelonne,” exclaimed Guiche, “to say such a thing to 
” ___“ The fact is so, however.” 
Impossible ! How, in what manner could I have become indiscreet 
ich an extent °” 
I mean, that your eyes, your looks, your sighs, speak, in spite of your- 
; that every exaggerated feeling leads and hurries a maa beyond his 
control. In such a case he ceases to be master of himself; he is a prey 
mad passion, which makes him confide his grief to the trees, or to the 
rom thevery moment he has no longer any living being within reach of 
oice. Besides, remember this, it very rarely happens that there is not 
ys some one present to hear, especially those very things which ought 
to be heard.” Guiche uttered a deep sigh. ‘“ Nay,” continued Bra- 
nne, “you distress me; since your return here, you have a thousand 


550 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


times, and in a thousand different ways, confessed your love for her re 
yet, had you not said anything, your return would alone have been al 
rible indiscretion. I persist, then, in drawing this conclusion ; that He 
do not place a greater watch over yourself than you have hitherto do 
one day or another something will happen which will cause an explosio 
Who will save you then? Answer me? Who will save her ?—for, inn 
cent as she will be of your affection, your affection will be an accusatic 
against her in the hands of her enemies.” 
“Alas !” murmured Guiche; and a deep sigh accompanied the © 
clamation. a 
“ That is not answering me, Guiche.”——“ Yes, yes.” 
“Well, what reply have you to make ?” ’ 
“This, that when that day arrives I shall not be less a living being tha 
I feel myself to be now.” 
‘I do not understand you.” 
- “So many vicissitudes have worn me out. At present, I am no mot 
thinking, acting being; at present, the most worthless of men is better tif 
I am; therefore, my remaining strength is now exhausted, my la 
formed resolutions have vanished, and I abandon myself to my 
When a man is out campaigning, as we have been together, and he 
off alone and unaccompanied for a skirmish, it sometimes happens tha 
may meet with a party of five or six foragers, and although alone, he i 
fends himself ; afterwards, five or six others arrive unexpectedly, his ange 
is aroused and he persists ;_ but if six, eight, or ten others should still 
mt with, he either sets spurs to his horse, if he should still happen to 
tain it, or lets himself be slain to save an jgnominious flight. Sue 
indeed, is my own case; first I had to struggle against myself ; afterwafd 
against Buckingham; now, since the king is in the field, I. will not ¢@ 
tend against the king, nor even, I wish you to understand, will the ki 
retire ; nor even against the nature of that woman. Still, I do not dece 
myself! having devoted myself to the service of that affection, I will I 
my life in it.” 4] 
“It ts not her you ought to reproach,” replied Raoul ; “it is yoursell 
“Why so?” 
“You know the princess’s character,—somewhat giddy, easily capt 
vated by novelty, susceptible to flattery, whether it come from a blind { 
son or a child, and yet you allow your passion for her to eat your. very 
away. Look at her,—love her, if you will—for no one whose heart is Ml 
engaged elsewhere can see her without loving her. Yet, while you I 


her, respect, in the first place, her husband’s rank, then himself, 
lastly, your own safety.” 


“Thanks Raoul.” ——“ For what ?” 


“Because, seeing how much I suffer from this woman, you endea 
to console me, because you tell me all the good of her you think, and pe 
haps even that which you do not think.” | 

“Oh,” said Raoul, “ there you are wrong, Guiche; what I think Id 
not always say, but in that case I Say nothing ; but when I speak, I kn 
not either how to feign or to deceive ; and whoever listens to me 
believe me.” | 

During this conversation, Madame, her head stretched forward wi 
eager ear and dilated glance, endeavouring to penetrate the obscurit 
thirstily drank in the faintest sound of their voices. 

“Oh, I know her better than you do, then !” exclaimed Guiche. “S' 
is not giddy, but frivolous; she is not attracted by novelty—she 


C 


LISTENERS CAM HEAR WHAT IS SAID. tt a 


aly oblivious, and is without faith ; she is not simply susceptible to 
tery—she is a practised and cruel coquette ; a thorough coquette ! yes, 
, 1 am sure of it. Believe me, Bragelonne, I am sufiering all the tor- 
ats of hell. Brave, passionately fond of danger, | meet a danger greater 
n my strength and my courage ; but, believe me, Raoul, I reserve for 
self a victory which shall cost her floods of tears.” 

* A victory,” he asked, “ of what kind?’ 

©Of what kind, you ask ?”—— “ Yes.” 

One day I will accost her, and will address her thus : ‘IT was young 
nadly in love ; I possessed, however, sufficient respect to throw myself 
your feet, and to prostrate myself with my forehead buried in the dust, 
four looks had not raised me to your hand. I fancied I understood 
r looks, I arose, and then, without having done anything towards you 
n love you yet more devotedly, if that were possible, you, a woman 
out heart, faith, or love, in very wantonness of disposition, dashed me 
wn again from mere caprice. You are unworthy, princess of the royal 
od though you may be, of the love of aman of honour. I offer my life 
a sacrifice jor having loved you too tenderly, and I die hating you.’” 
‘Oh !” cried Raoul, terrified at the accents of profound truth which 
iche’s words betrayed, “I was right in saying you were mad, Guiche.” 
‘Yes, yes,’ exclaimed De Guiche, following out his own idea, “since 
re are no wars here now, I will flee yonder to the north, seck service 
the Empire, where some Hungarian, or Croat, or Turk, will perhaps 
dly put me out of my misery at once.” De Guiche did not finish, cr 
cher, as he finished, a sound made him start, and at the same mcircrt 
ade Raoul leap to his feet. As jor De Guiche, buried in his own thorel ts, 
remained seated, with his head tightly pressed between his hands, ‘Ile 
anches of the tree were pushed aside, and a wcman, pale and much 
itated, appeared before the two young men. With one hand she held 
ck the branches, which would have struck her face, and with the other 
e raised the hood of the mantle which covered her shoulders. Py her 
sar and lustrous glance, by her lofty carriage, by her haughty attitude, 
\d more than all by the throbbing of his own heart, De Guiche recog- 
sed Madame, and, uttering a loud cry, he removed his hands from his 
mples, and covered his eyes with them. Raoul, trembling and out of 
yuntenance, merely muttered a few formal words of respect. 

“Monsieur de Bragelonne,” said the princess, “have the goodness, I 
»g, to-see if my attendants are not somewhere yonder, either in the walks 
“in the groves; and you, M. de Guiche, remain here—I am tired, and 
yu will perhaps give me your arm.” 

Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of the unhappy young man, he 
ould have been less terrified than by her cold and severe tone. However, 
; he himself had just said, he was brave ; and as in the depths of his own 
sart he had just decisively made up his mind, De Guiche arose, and, 
yserving Bragelonne’s hesitation, he turned towards him a glance full of 
signation and of grateful acknowledgment. Instead of immediately 
aswering Madame, he even advanced a step towards the vicomte, and, 
olding out towards him the hand which the princess had just desired 
im to give her, he pressed his friend’s hand in his own with a sigh, in 
hich he seemed to give to friendship all life that was left in the deptbs 
fhis heart. Madame, who, in her pride, had never known what it was 
) wait, now waited until this mute colloquy was ended. Her royal hand 
smained suspended in the air, and, when Raoul had left, it sank without 
nger, but not without emotion, in that of De Guiche. ‘They were alone 


en4 


—_ 


552 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, : 
in the depths of the dark and silent forest, and nothing could be hear 
but Raoul’s hastily retreating footsteps along the obscure paths. Ove 
their heads was extended the thick and fragant vault of branches, throug 
the occasional openings of which the stars could be seen glittering in the 
beauty. Madame softly drew De Guiche about a hundred paces awa 
from that indiscreet tree which had heard, and had allowed so many thing 
to be heard, during that evening, and, leading him to a neighbouring glad 
so that they could see a certain distance around them, she said, in | 
trembling voice, “I have brought you here, because yonder, where yo! 
were, everything can be overheard.” i 

“Everything can be overheard, did you say, madame ?” replied th| 
young man, mechanically.——“ Yes.” | 

“Which means——” murmured De Guiche. if 

“Which means that I have heard every syllable you have said.” i 

“Oh, Heaven! this only was wanting to destroy me,” stammered D 
Guiche ; and he bent down his head, like an exhausted swimmer beneat, 
the wave which engulfs him. E 

And so,” she said, “you judge me as you have said?” Guiche gre 
pale, turned his head aside, and was silent ; he felt almost on the point @ 
fainting. cit 

“T do not complain,” continued the princess, in a tone of voice full o| 
gentleness ; “I prefer a frankness which wounds me, to flattery whi) 
would deceive me. And so, according to your opinion, M. de Guiche, | 
am a coquette and a worthless creature ?” & 

“ Worthless !” cried the young man—“ you worthless! No, no; mag) 
certatnly I did not say, I could not have said, that that which was the mos 
precious object in life for me could be worthless. No, no; I did not Sa} 
that.” | 

‘‘A woman who sees a man perish, consumed by the fire she has kindled 
and who does not allay that fire, is, in my opinion, a worthless woman.” | 

“What can it matter to you what I said ?” returned the comte. ‘ Wha 
am I compared to you, and why should you even trouble yourself to knoy 
whether I exist or not >” 3) 


your family, for the king, and for our sex, a cavalier whom every on( 


perhaps ; and you will renounce your idea of dying, and will preserve fo! 


esteems, and whom many hold dear.” Madame pronounced this las) 
word in such an accent of frankness, and even of tenderness, that poo 
De Guiche’s heart felt almost bursting. g 


“Oh! madame, madame !” he stammered out, é 
“ Nay, listen further,” she continued. “ When you shall have renouncec 
all thought of me for ever, from necessity in the first place, and, after wards 
because you will yield to my entreaty, then you will judge me more 


favourably, and I am convinced you will replace this love—forgive th 


LISTENERS CAN HEAR WHAT IS SAID. 553 


ly of the expression—by a sincere friendship, which you will be ready. 
offer me, and which, I promise you, shall be cordially accepted “ 
De Guiche, his forehead bedewed with perspiration, a feeling of death 
his heart, and a trembling agitation through his whole frame, bit his 
, stamped his foot on the ground, and, in a word, devoured the bitters 
ss of his grief. ‘‘ Madame,” he said, “‘ what you offer is impossible, and 
‘annot accept such conditions.” 

“What !” said Madame, “ do you refuse my friendship, then ?” 
“No, no! I need not your friendship, madame ; I prefer to die from 
re than to live for friendship.” * Comte !” 
‘Oh! madame,” cried De Guiche, “the present is a moment for me in 
1ich no other consideration and no other respect exist, than the conside- 
‘ion and respect of a man of honour towards the woman he worships. 
rive me away, curse me, denounce me, you will be perfectly right; I 
ve uttered complaints against you, but their bitterness has been owing 
-my passion for you ; I have said that I would die, and die I shall. If 
lived, you would forget me ; but dead, you would never forget me, I am 
ire,” 
And yet she, who was standing buried in thought, and as agitated as 
e Guiche himself, turned aside her head as he but a minute before had 
rned aside his. Then, after a moment’s pause, she said, ‘‘ And you love 
e, then, very much ?” 

“ Madly ; madly enough to die from it, whether you drive me from you, 
whether you listen to me still.” 
“Tt is, therefore, a hopeless case,” she said, in a playful manner ; “a 
ise which must be treated with soothing applications. Give me your 
and. It is as cold as ice.” De Guiche knelt down, and pressed to his 
3s, not one, but both of Madame’s hands. 
“Love me, then,” said the princess, ‘’ since it cannot be otherwise.” And 
most imperceptibly she pressed his fingers, raising him thus. partly in 
1e manner of a queen, and partly as a fond and affectionate woman would 
ave done. De Guiche trembled throughout, from head to foot, and 
[adame, who felt how passion coursed through every fibre of his being, 
new that he indeed loved truly. ‘Give me your arm, comte," she said, 
and let us return.” 
“Ah! madame," said the comte, trembling and bewildered ; “ you have 
iscovered a third way of killing me.” 

“ But, happily, it is the longest, is it not ?” she replied, as she led him 
»wards the grove of trees she had left. 


ce 


CHAPTER CXXI. 
. ARAMIS’S CORRESPONDENCE. 


VuILsT De Guiche’s affairs, which had been suddenly set to rights without 
is having been able to guess the cause of their improvement, assumed 
hat unexpected change which we have seen Raoul, in obedience to the 
equest of H. R. H. had withdrawn in order not to interrupt an explana- 
ion, the results of which he was far from cuessing, and he had joined the 
adies of honour who were walking about in the flower-gardens. During 
his time, the Chevalier de Lorraine, who had returned to his own room, 
ead De Wardes’ letter with surprise, for it informed him, by the hand of 
tis valet, of the sword-thrust received at Calais, and of all the details of 
he adventure, and invited him to communicate to De Guiche and to Mon- 


= 


554 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


sieur, whatever there might be in the affair likely to be most disagreeable 
to both of them. De Wardes particularly endeavoured to prove to the 
chevalier the violence of Madame’s affection for Buckingham, and he 
finished his letter by declaring that he thought this feeling was returned 
The chevalier shrugged his shoulders at the latter paragraph, and, in fact 
De Wardes was very much behindhand, as may have been seen, De 
Wardes was still only at Buckingham’s affair. ‘The chevalier threw thy 
letter over his shoulder upon an adjoining table, and said in a disdainfy) 
tone :—“ It is really incredible ; and yet poor De Wardes is not deficien| 
in ability ; but the truth is, it is not very apparent, so easy is it to groy| 
rusty in the country. The deuce take the simpleton, who ought to havi 
written to me about matters of importance, and who writes such silly stuf| 
as that. If it had not been for that miserable letter, which has no mea Y} 
ing at all in it, I should have detected in the grove yonder a charmin | 
little intrigue, which would have compromised a woman, would have per 
haps been as good as asword-thrust for a man, and have diverted Mon 
sieur for some days to come.” 3 
He looked at his watch. “It is now too late,” he said. “ One o’clo@ 
in the morning ; every one must have returned to" the king’s apartments, 
where the night is to be finished ; well, the scent is lost, and, unless so 
extraordinary chance——-” And, thus saying, as if to appeal to his gog 
star, the chevalier, much out of temper, approached the window, whig@ 
looked out upon a somewhat solitary part of the garden. Immediate! 
and as if some evil genius had been at his orders, he perceived returning 
towards the chateau, accompanied by a man, a silk mantle ofa dark colo 
and recognised the figure which had struck his attention half an hour pre 
viously. “| 
“‘ Admirable !” he thought, striking his hands together, “ this is my mys 
terious affair.” And he started out precipitately along the staircase, hoping 
to reach the courtyard in time to recognise the woman in the mantle, and 
her companion. But, as he arrived at the door in the little court, he nearly 
knocked against Madame, whose radiant face. seemed full of charming 
revelations beneath the mantle which protected without concealing her 
Unfortunately, Madame was alone. The chevalier knew that since he 
had seen her, not five minutes before, with a gentleman, the gentlemanif 
question could not be far off. Consequently, he hardly took time to sal 
the princess as he drew up, to allow her to pass ; then, when she had a 
vanced a few steps, with the rapidity of a woman who fears recognition) 
and when the chevalier perceived that she was too much occupied with he} 
own thoughts to trouble herself about him, he darted into the garden 
looked hastily round on every side, and embraced within his glance aj 
much of the horizon as he possibly could, He was just in time; th 
gentleman who had accompanied Madame was still in sight ; only he was 
rapidly hurrying towards one of the wings of the ché¢eau, behind which he 
was just on the point of disappearing. There was not a minute to losé 
the chevalier darted in pursuit of him, prepared to slacken his pace as ht 
approached the unknown ; but, in spite of the diligence he used, the un! 
known had disappeared behind the flight of steps before he approached. | 
It was evident, however, that as he whom the chevalier pursued was 
walking quietly, in a very pensive manner, with his head bent down, eithel 
beneath the weight of grief or of happiness; when once the angle wa‘ 
passed, unless, indeed, he were to enter by some door or another, th 
chevalier could not fail to overtake him. And this, certainly, would have 
happened, if, at the very moment he turned the angle, the cheyalier hac 


J, 


(| 
.s 


eat 


ARAMIS’S CORRESPONDENCE. 855 


t run against two persons, who were themselves turning it in the opposite 
ection. ‘The chevalier was quite ready to seek a quarrel with these two 
‘ublesome intruders, when looking up he recognised the surintendant. 
‘uquet was accompanied by a person whom the chevalier now saw for 
2first time. This stranger was his grace the bishop of Vannes. Checked 
the important character of the individual, and obliged from politeness 
make his own excuses when he expected to receive them, the chevalier 
-pped back a few paces ; and as Monsieur Fouquet possessed, if not the 
endship, at least the respect of every one ; as the king himself, although 
was rather his enemy than his friend, treated M. Fouquet as a man of 
sat consideration, the chevalier did, what the king would have done, 
‘mely, he bowed to M. Fouquet, who returned his salutation with kindly 
‘liteness, perceiving that the gentleman had run against him by mistake 
id without any intention of being rude. Then, almost immediately after- 
ards, having recognised the Chevalier de Lorraine, he made a few civil 
marks, to which the chevalier was obliged to reply. Brief as the con- 
‘rsation was, the Chevalier de Lorraine, saw, with the most unfeigned 
spleasure, the figure of his unknown becoming less and less in the 
stance, and fast disappearing in the darkness. The chevalier resigned, 
mself, and, once resigned, gave his entire attention to Fouquet :—‘‘ You 
rive late, monsieur,” he said. ‘“ Your absence has occasioned great sur- 
ise, and I heard Monsieur express himself as much astonished, that, 

ving been invited by the king, you had not come.” 
| “Tt was impossible for me to do so ; but I came as soon as I was free.” 
“Ts Paris quiet ?” 
|“ Perfectly so. Paris has received the last tax very well.” 

“Ah! I understand, you wished to assure yourself of this good feeling 
efore you came to participate in our /éées.” 
«1 have arrived, however, somewhat late to enjoy them. I will ask you, 
herefore, to inform me if the king is within the c/é¢eau or not, if I shall 
ie able to see him this evening, or if I am to wait until to-morrow.” 
“We have lost sight of his majesty during the last half-hour nearly,” 
aid the chevalier. 
“Perhaps he is in Madame’s apartments,” inquired Fouquet. 
“Not in Madame’: apartments, I should think, for I have just met 
Madame as she was entering by the small staircase ; and unless the gentle- 
nan whom you just now passed was the king himself ” and the cheva- 
jer paused, hoping that, in this manner, he might learn who it was he had 
seen hurrying after. But Fouquet, whether he had or had not recognised 
De Guiche, simply replied, “ No, monsieur, it was not he.” 

_ The chevalier, disappointed in his expectation, saluted them ; but as he 
lid so, casting a parting glance around him, and perceiving M. Colbert in 
he centre of a group, he said to the suriritendant : “ Stay, monsieur ; there 
is some one under the trees yonder, who will be able to inform you better 
than myself.” 

_ “Who ?” asked Fouquet, whose near-sightedness prevented his seeing 
through the darkness. 

“MM _ Colbert,” returned the chevalier. 

“Tndeed! That person, then, who is speaking yonder to those men 
with torches in their hands, is M. Colbert ~ 
' “MM. Colbert himself. He is giving his orders personally to the work- 
men who are arranging the lamps for the illuminations.” 
~ Thank you,” said Fouquet, with an inclination of the head, which in- 
‘dicated that he had obtained all the information he wished, The cheyalier, 


556 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


on his side, having, on the contrary, learnt nothing at all, withdrew wit 
profound salutation. E 
He had scarcely left, when Fouquet, knitting his brows, fell into a de 
reverie. Aramis looked at him for a moment with a mingled feeling 
compassion and sadness. “ What!” he said to him, “that man’s nan 
alone seems to affect you. Is it possible, that, full of triumph and delig 
as you were just now, the sight merely of that man is capable of dispir 
ing you? Tell me, have you faith in your good star?” “ No,” replis 
Fouquet, dejectedly. : 
“Why not ?” tA 
“ Because I am too full of happiness at this present moment,” he replie 
in a trembling voice. “ You, my dear D’ Herblay, who are so learned, w 
remember the history of a certain tyrant of Samos. What can I thro 
into the sea to avert approaching evil? Yes! I repeat it once more, I 4 
too full of happiness! so happy, that I wish for nothing beyond what 
have.... I have risen so high... . You know my motto: ‘ Quo mo 
ascendam??’ I have risen so high that nothing is left me but to descen| 
from my elevation. I cannot believe in the progress of a success whic | 
already more than human.” 
Aramis smiled as he fixed his kind and penetrating glance upon hi 
“If I were aware of the cause of your happiness,” he said, “I should pi 
bably fear for your disgrace ; but you regard me in the light of a tr 
friend ; I mean, you turn to me in misfortune, nothing more. Even th 
is an immense and precious boon, I know; but the truth is, I have a j 
right to beg you to confide in me, from time to time, any fortunate circu 
stances which may befall you, and in which I should rejoice, you kno 
more than if they had befallen myself.” : 
“ My dear prelate,” said F ouquet, laughing, “ my secrets are of too pro 
fane a character to confide them to a bishop, however great a worldli 
he may be.”—-—“ Bah ! in confession.” ; 
“Oh! I should blush too much if you were my confessor.” And Fo 
quet began to sigh. Aramis again looked at him without any other br 
trayal of his thoughts than a quiet smile. 
“Well,” he said, “ discretion is a great virtue.” | 
“Silence,” said Fouquet, “that venomous beast has recognised us, and 
is coming this way.”—-—“ Colbert ?” ; 
“Yes ; leave me, D’Herblay ; I do not wish that fellow to see you wit 
me, or he will take an aversion to you.” 
Aramis pressed his hand, saying, “ What need have I of his friendshit 
while you are here ?” : 
“Yes, but I may not be always here,” replied Fouquet, dejectedly. | 
“On that day, then, if that day should ever come,” said Aramis, tran 
quilly, “we will think over a means of dispensing with the friendship, or 
of braving the dislike, of M. Colbert. But tell me, my dear Fouquet, in-) 
stead of conversing with this fellow, as you did him the honour to style 
him, a conversation the utility of which I do not perceive, why do you no 
pay a visit, if not to the king, at least to Madame ?” 
“To Madame !” said the surintendant, his mind occupied by his sozve: 
nirs.——“ Yes, certainly, to Madame.” 
“You remember,” continued Aramis, ‘that we have been told that 
Madame stands high in favour during the last two or three days. It 
enters into your policy, and forms part of our plans, that you should assidu- | 
ously devote yourself to his majesty’s friends. It is a means of counter- | 
acting the growing influence of M, Colbert, Present yourself, therefore, 


ARAMIS'S CORRESPONDENCE.  . 55? 


soon as possible, to Madame, and, for our sakes, treat this ally with 
nsideration.” 
“ But,” said Fouquet, “are you quite sure that it is upon her the king 
s his eyes fixed at the present moment ?” 
“Tf the needle has turned, it must be since the morning. You know I 
ve my police.” 
fs Very well! Igo there at once, and, at all events, I shall have a means 
introduction, in the shape of a magnificent pair of antique cameos set 
and with’ diamonds,” 
“ T have seen them, and nothing could be more costly and regal.” 
At this moment they were interrupted by a servant followed by a courier. 
For you, monseigneur,” said the courier aloud, presenting a letter to 
muquet. 
“For your grace,” said the lackey in a low tone, handing Aramis a 
ter, And as the lackey carried a torch in his hand, he placed himself 
t ween the surintendant and the Bishop of Vannes, so that both of them 
uld read at the same time. As Fouquet looked at the fine and delicate 
‘iting on the envelope, he started with delight ; they who love, or who 
e beloved, will understand his anxiety in the first place, and his happi- 
ss in the next. He hastily tore open the letter, which, however, 
ntained only these words: “It is but an hour since I quitted you, it is 
. age since I told you that I love you.” And that was all. Madame de 
alligre had, in fact, left Fouquet about an hour previously, after having 
issed two days with him ; ; and, apprehensive lest his remembrance of 
sr might not be effaced for too long a period from the heart she re- 
etted, she despatched a courier to him as the bearer of this important 
munication. Fouquet kissed the letter, and rewarded the bearer with 
handful of gold. As for Aramis, he, on his side, was engaged in read- 
g, but with more coolness and reflection, the following letter ; 

“The king has this evening been struck witha strange fancy ; a woman 
ves him. ‘He learnt it accidentally, as he was listening to the conver- 
tion of this young girl with her companions ; and his majesty has 
itirely abandoned himself to this new caprice. The girl’s name is 
ademoiselle de la Valliére, and she is sufficiently pretty to warrant this 
price becoming a strong attachment, Beware of Mademoiselle de la 
alli¢re.” 

‘There was not a word about Madame. Aramis slowly folded the letter 
id put it in his pocket. Fouquet was still engaged in inhaling the per- 
me of his epistle. 

« Monseigneur,’ said Aramis, touching Fouquet’s arm. 

Yes ; what is it?” he asked. 

“ An idea has just occurred to me. Are you acquainted with a young 
1] of the name of La Valliére ?” 

Not at all."——“ Reflect a little.” 

“An! ! yes, I believe so, ene of Madame’s maids of honour.” 

“That must be the one.”——“ Well, what then ?” 

“Well, monseigneur, it is s to that young girl that you must pay your 
sit this evening. % 

* Bah ! why so?” 
“Nay, more than that, it is to her you must present your cameos.” 
“Nonsense.” 

“You know, monseigneur, that my advice is not to be regarded lightly.” 
“Vet this unforeseen——” 

“ That is my affair. Pay your court in due form, and without loss of 


558 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


time, to Mademoiselle de la Valligre. 1 will be your guarantee with f 
dame de Belliére that your devotion is altogether politic.” é 
“What do you mean, my dear D’Herblay, and whose name have you 
just pronounced ?” | 
“A name which ought to convince you that, as I am so well informed 
about yourself, I may possibly be as well informed about others. Pay 
your court, therefore, to La Valliére.” 
“I will pay my court to whomsoever you like,” replied Fouquet, his 
heart filled with happiness. | 
“Come, come, descend again to the earthi, traveller of the seventh 
heaven,” said Aramis ; “ M. de Colbert is approaching. He has been re. 
cruiting while we were reading ; see, how he is surrounded, praised, 
congratulated ; he is decidedly becoming powerful.” In fact, Colbert wa | 
_ advancing, escorted by all the courtiers who remained in the gardens, 
every one of whom complimented him upon the arrangements of the ens 
and which so puffed him up, that he could hardly contain himself =) 
“If La Fontaine were here,” said Fouquet, smiling, “what an admir- 
able opportunity for him to recite his fable of ‘The Frog that wished to 
make itself as big as the Ox.’” = 
Colbert arrived, in the centre of a circle blazing with light ; Fouque 
awaited his approach, unmoved, and with a slightly mocking smile. Col 
bert smiled too ; he had been observing his enemy during the last quarte 
of an hour, and had been approaching him gradually. Colbert’s smil 
was a presage of hostility. 
“Ch! oh!” said Aramis, in a low tone to the surintendant ; “ th 
scoundrel is going to ask you again for a few more millions to pay for hi 
fireworksand his coloured lamps.” Colbert was the first to salute them, an 


with an air which he endeavoured to render respectful. Fouquet hardl: 
moved his head. ¥ 
“Well, monseigneur, what do your eyes say? Have we shown our goo 
taste?” 7 
“ Perfect taste,” replied Fouquet, without permitting the slightest tone 
of raillery to be remarked in his words. 
“Oh!” said Colbert, maliciously, “ you are treating us with indulgence 
We are poor, we other servants of the king, and Fontainebleau is no waj 
to be compared as a residence with Vaux.” , 
~ Quite true,” replied Fouquet, coolly. : 
“But what can we do, monseigneur ?” continued Colbert ; “we have 
done our best withour slender resources.” Fouquet made a gesture of assent 
“But,” pursued Colbert, “it would be only a proper display of you 
magnificence, monseigneur, if you were to offer to his majesty a fé¢e in) 


“ But do you suppose, monsieur, that his majesty would deign to accep 

my invitation ?” 7 
“I have no doubt whatever of it,” cried Colbert, hastily, “I will guarantee 

that he does.” | 
“ You are exceedingly kind,” said Fouquet. “I may depend on it, then?* 
Yes, monseigneur ; yes, certainly.” 
“Then I will consider of it,” said Fouquet. ; 
“ Accept, accept,” whispered Aramis eagerly, .. 
“ You will consider of it ?” repeated Colbert. 


OT ellos 


ARAMIS’S CORRESPONDENCE. 559 


‘Yes, replied Fouquet ; “in order to know what day I shall submit 
invitation to the king.” 

‘This very evening, monseigneur, this very evening.” 

* Agreed,” said the surintendant. “Gentlemen, I should wish to issue 
invitations ; but you know, that, wherever the king goes, the king is in 
own palace ; it is by his majesty, therefore, that you must be invited.” 
murmur of delight immediately arose. Fouquet bowed and left. 
©Proud and haughty man,” said Colbert, “you accept, and you know it 
J cost you ten millions.” 

“You have ruined me,” said Fouquet, ina low tone to Aramis. 

‘I have saved you,” replied the latter, whilst Fouquet ascended the 
‘ht of steps and inquired whether the king was still visible. 

f 


— —- 


CHAPTER CXXII. 
THE ORDERLY CLERK. 


{£ king, anxious to be again quite alone, in order to reflect well upon 
1at was passing in his heart, had withdrawn to his own apartments, where 
de Saint-Aignan had, after his conversation with Madame, gone to 
ket him. This conversation has already been related. The favourite, 
in of his twofold importance, and feeling that he had become, during the 
st two hours, the confidant of the king, began to treat the affairs of the 
urt ‘n a somewhat indifferent manner ; and, from the position in which 
had placed himself, or rather, where chance had placed him, he saw 
‘thing but love and garlands of flowers around him. The king’s love for 
adame, that of Madame for the king, that of Guiche for Madame, that 
‘La Vallitre for the king, that of Malicorne for Montalais, that of Made- 
oiselle de Tonnay-Charente for himself, was not all this, truly, more than 
,ough to turn the head of any courtier? Besides, Saint-Aignan was the 
odel of all courtiers, past, present, and future ; and, moreover, Saint- 
ignan showed himself such an excellent narrator, and so discerningly 
»preciative, that the king listened to him with an appearance of great 
terest, particularly when he described the excited manner with which 
‘adame had sought for him to converse about the affair of Mademoiselle 
> Ja Vallitre. When the king no longer experienced for Madame any 
‘mains of the passion he had once felt for her, there was, in this same 
igerness of Madame to procure information about him, such a gratifica- 
on for his vanity, from which he could not free himself. He experienced 
lis gratification, then, but nothing more ; and his heart was not, for a 
ngle moment, alarmed at what M adame might, or might not, think or 
is adventure. When, however, Saint-Aignan had finished, the king, 
hile preparing to retire to rest, asked, “ Now, Saint-Aignan, you know 
‘hat Mademoiselle de la Valliére is, do you not 2” 
“ Not only what she is, but what she will be.” 
“What do you mean ?” 
JT mean, that she is everything that a woman can wish to be, that is to 
ay, beloved by your majesty ; | mean, that she will be everything your 
aajesty may wish her to be.” 
“That is not what Iam asking. I do not wish to know what she is to- 
ay, or what she will be to-morrow ; as you have remarked, that is my 
ffair. But tell me what others say of her.” 

“ They say she is well-conducted.” 
Oh !” said the king, smiling, “ that is but report.” 


| 
; 
: 
| 
| 


| 
\ 


560 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 
“But rare enough, at court, sire, to believe it when it is spread” 
“Perhaps you are right. Is she well-born ?” ; ; 
“Excellently so ; the daughter of the Marquis de la Valli¢re, and stej 
daughter of that good M. de Saint-Remy.” E 
“Ah! yes, my aunt’s major-domo ; I remember it; and I remembe 
now, that I saw her as I passed through Blois. She was presented to th 
queens. I have even to reproach myself, that I did not, on that occasiol 
pay her all the attention she deserved.” ; 7 
“Oh! sire, I trust that your majesty will repair the time you have lost 
“And the report—you tell me—is, that Mademoiselle de la Vallid 
never had a lover.” 


“In any case, I do not think your majesty would be much alarmed af 
the rivalry.” 


“ Yet stay,” said the king, in a very serious tone of voice. 
“ Your majesty ?” 
“I remember.”——“ Ah !” 
“ If she has no lover, she has, at least, a betrothed.” 

- “ A betrothed !” 
What ! count, do not you know that?? ——“ No.” 
You, the man who knows all the news ?” 


“Your majesty will excuse me. Your majesty knows this betrothed 
then ?” 4 
“ Assuredly ! his father came to ask me to sign the marriage contract 
it is ” The king was about to pronounce the Vicomte de Bragelonne’ 
name, when he stopped, and knitted his brows. q 

“It is——” repeated Saint-Aignan, inquiringly. | 
“TI don’t remember now,” replied Louis X1V., endeavouring to conceal 
an annoyance which he had some trouble to (lisguise. F 
‘Can I put your majesty in the way ?” inquired the Comte de Saint 
Aignan. a 
“No ; for I no longer remember to whom I intended to refer ; indeed 
I only remember, very indistinctly, that one of the maids of honour, was to 
marry——, the name, however, has escaped me.” 3 
“Was it Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente he was going to marry? 
inquired Saint-Aignan. 
“Very likely,” said the king. 
“In that case the intended was M. de Montespan ; but Mademoiselle. 
de Tonnay-Charente did not speak of it, it seemed to me, in such a manner 
as would frighten suitors away.” =| 
“At all events,” said the king, “I know nothing, or almost nothing, 
about Mademoiselle de la Valliére. Saint-Aignan, I rely upon you to pro- 
cure me some information about her.” 
“Yes, sire, and when shall I have the honour of s 
again, to give you the information ?” 
“Whenever you shall have procured it.” 
“TI shall obtain it speedily, then, if the information can 
obtained as my wish to see your majesty again.” 


~ Well said, count !' By the bye, has Madame displayed any ill-feeling 


eeing your majesty 


be as quickly 


against this poor girl ??—_“ None, sire.” 

‘Madame did not get angry, then ?” 

“I do not know ; I only know that she laughed continually.” . 

be That’s well ; but I think I hear voices in the anterooms—no doubt a 
courier has just arrived. Inquire, Saint-Aignan.” The count ran to the 
door and exchanged a few words with the usher ; he returned to the king, 


a] 


THE ORDERLY CLERK. 561 


ng, “Sire, it is M. Fouquet who has this moment arrived, by your ma- 
”s orders, he says. He presented himself, but because of the advanced 

:, he does not press for an audience this evening, and is satisfied to have 

sresence here formally announced.” 

M. Fouquet ! I wrote to him at three o’clock, inviting him to be at 

tainebleau the following morning, and he arrives at Fontainebleau at 

‘o'clock. This is, indeed, zeal!” exclaimed the king, delighted to see 
self so promptly obeyed. “On the contrary, M. Fouquet shall have 

audience. I summoned him, and will receive him. Let him be intro- 

ad. As for you, count, pursue your inquiries, and be here to-morrow.” 

he king placed his finger on his lips ; and Saint-Aignan, his heart 

aful of happiness, hastily withdrew, telling the usher to introduce M. 

.quet, who, thereupon, entered the king’s apartment. Louis rose to 

sive him. 

Good evening, M. Fouquet,” he said, smiling graciously; “I congratu- 
you on your punctuality ; and yet my message must have reached 
late °” “‘ At nine in the evening, sire.” 

You have been working very hard, lately, M. Fouquet, for I have been 

med that you have not left your rooms at Saint-Mandé during the 
three or four days.” 

It is perfectly true, your majesty, that I have kept myself shut up for 
past three days,” replied Fouquet. 

Do you know, M. Fouquet, that I had a great many things to say to 

_?” continued the king, with a most gracious air. 

‘Your majesty overwhelms me, and since you are so graciously dis- 

ed towards me, will your majesty permit me to remind you of the 

mise your majesty made to grant me an audience ?” 

‘Ah! yes ; some church dignitary, “ho thinks he has to thank me for 

rething, is it not?” 

‘Precisely so, sire. The hour is, perhaps, badly chosen ; but the time 

he companion whom I have bro:ght with me is valuable, and as Fon- 

iebleau is on the way to his diocese « 

‘Who is it, then?” 

‘The last bishop of Vannes, whuse appointment your majesty, at my 

ommendation, deigned, three mon_hs since, to sign.” 

‘That is very possible,” said the king, who had signed without reading ; 

nd is he here ?” 

i Yes, sire; Vannes is an important diocese ; the flock belonging to 

s pastor need his religious consolation; they are savages, whom it is 

sessary to polish, at the same time that he instructs them, and M. 

erblay is unequalled in such kind of missions.” 

©M. d’Herblay !” said the king, musingly, as if his name, heard long 

ce, was not, however, unknown to him. 

“Ch !” said Fouquet, promptly, “ your majesty is not acquainted with the 

scure name of one of your most faithful and most valuable servants ?” 

*No, I confess Iam not. And so he wishes to set off again ?” 

‘He has this very day received letters which will, perhaps, compel him 

leave ; so that, before setting off for that unknown region called Bre 

me, he is desirous of paying his respects to your majesty.” 

“Ts he waiting ?” “ He is here, sire.” 

“Let him enter.” An 

Foriquet made a sign to the usher in attendance, who was waiting be- 

id the tapestry. The door opened, and Aramis entered. The king 

owed him to finish the compliments which he addressed to Bg, and 

3 


562 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


fixed a long look upon a countenance which no one could forget, a 
having once beheld it. 

“Vannes !” he said: “you are bishop of Vannes, I believe ?? 

“Yes, sire.”——“ Vannes is in Bretagne, I think ?” Aramis bowed. - 

“Near the coast ?” - Aramis again bowed. 

“A few leagues trom Belle-Isle, is it not ?” 

“Yes, sire,” replied Aramis ; “six leagues, I believe.” 

“ Six leagues ; a mere step, then,” said Louis XIV. ' 

“Not for us poor Bretons, sire,” replied Aramis ; “ six leagues, on t 
contrary, is a great distance, if it be six leagues on land; and an it 
mense distance, if it be leagues on the sea. Besides, I have the hono 
to mention to your majesty that there are six leagues of sea from # 
river to Belle-Isle.” | 

“Itis said that M. Fouquet has a very beautiful house there ?” inqui 
the king. 

“Yes, it is said so,” said Aramis, looking quietly at Fouquet. 

“What do you mean by ‘it is said so?” exclaimed the king. 

*'He has, sire.” 

“Really, M. Fouquet, I must confess that one circumstance surpri 
me.”——“‘ What may that be, sire ?” / 

“That you should have at the head of your parishes a man like I 
d’Herblay, and yet should not have shown him Belle-Isle 2” . 

“Oh, sire,” replied the bishop, without giving Fouquet time to answei 
“we poor Breton prelates seldom leave our residences.” 

““M. de Vannes,” said the king, “I will punish M. Fouquet for f 
indifference.” 

“In what way, sire ?’—-—“T will change your bishopric.” 

Fouquet bit his lips, but Aramis only smiled. 

“What income does Vannes bring you in?” continued the king. 

“Sixty thousand livres, sire,” said Aramis. bd 

“So trifling an amount as that ; but you possess other property, Monsie 
de Vannes ?” me 

“T have nothing else, sire ; only M. Fouquet pays me one thousand 
hundred livres a year for his pew in the church.” } 

“Well, M. d’Herblay, I promise you something better than that.” ~ 

“¢ Sire——” “T will not forget you.” 

Aramis bowed, and the king also bowed to him ina respectful mann 
as he was always accustomed to do towards women and members of 

Church. Aramis gathered that his audience was at an end ; be took 
leave of the king in the simple, unpretending language ofa country past 
and disappeared. Ps 

“ His is, indeed, a remarkable face,” said the king, following him with 
his eyes as long as he could see him, and even to a certain degree when! 
was no longer to be seen. . 

“Sire,” replied Fouquet, “if that bishop had been educated early it 
life, no prelate in the kingdom would deserve the highest distinctions bette 
than he.” 

“ His learning is not extensive, then ?” 

“He changed the sword for the priest’s garments, and that rather 
in life. But it matters little, if your majesty will permit me to speak o 
M. de Vannes again on another occasion——” . 

“I beg you to do so. ‘But, before speaking of him, let us speak of your 
self, M. Fouquet.” ta 


“ Of me, sire ??»——“ Yes, I have to pay you a thousand compliments.” - 


THE ORDERLY CLERK. 563 


‘I cannot express to your majesty the delight with which you over-' 


elm me.” 

‘I understand you, M. Fouquet. I confess, however, to have had certain 
judices against you.” 

‘In that case, I was indeed unhappy, sire.” 

‘But they exist no longer. Did you not perceive—— 
‘I did indeed, sire ; but I awaited with resignation the day when truth 
uld prevail ; and it seems that that day has now arrived.” 

‘Ah! you knew, then, you were in disgrace with me ?” 

‘Alas! sire, I perceived it.” 
‘And do you know the reason? 
‘Perfectly well ; your majesty thought that I had been wastefully lavish 
expenditure.” —“ Not so ; far from that.” 

‘Or, rather, an indifferent administrator. In a word, your majesty 
yught that, as the people had no money, there would be none for your 
ijesty either ” 

‘Yes, I thought so ; but I was deceived.” Fouquet bowed. 

* And no disturbances, no complaints ?” 

* And money enough,” said Fouquet. 

‘The fact is, that you have been profuse with it during the last month.” 
“T have more still, not only for all your majesty’s requirements, but for 
your caprices.” 

“J thank you, Monsieur Fouquet,” replied the king seriously. “I will 
t put you tothe proof. For the next two months I do not intend to ask 
u for anything.” 

“I will avail myself of the interval to amass five or six millions, which 
ll be serviceable as money in hand in case of war.” 

‘Five or six millions !” 

“For the expenses of your majesty’s household only, be it understood.” 
“Vou think war is probable, M. Fouquet ?” 

“1 think that if Heaven has bestowed on the eagle a beak and claws, 
's to enable him to show his royal character.” The king blushed with 
sasure. 

“We have spent a great deal of money these few days past, Monsieur ~ 
yuquet ; will you not scold me for it ?” 

“ Sire, your majesty has still twenty years of youth to enjoy, and a thou- 
nd million of francs to spend in those twenty years.” 

“That is a great deal of money, M. Fouquet,” said the king. 

“T will economize, sire. Besides, your majesty has two valuable men in 
. Colbert and myself. The one will encourage you to be prodigal with 
uur treasures—and this shall be myself, if my services should continue to 
agreeable to your majesty ; and the other will economize money for 
yu, and this will be M. Colbert's province.” 

“ M. Colbert ?” returned the king, astonished. 

“ Certainly, sire ; M. Colbert is an excellent accountant.” 

Ai this commendation, bestowed by the enemy on the enemy himself, 
e king felt himself penetrated with confidence and admiration. There 
as not, moreover, either in Fouquet’s voice or look, anything which in- 
riously affected a single syllable of the remark he had made ; he did not 
iss one eulogium, as it were, in order to acquire the right of making two 
proaches. The king comprehended him, and yielding to so much 
nerosity and address, he said, “ You praise M. Colbert, then ?” 
“Yes, sire, I praise him ; for, besides being a man of merit, I believe 
m to be very devoted to your majesty’s interests.” 


2 


13 


36—z2 


564 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. i 
“Ts that because he has often interfered with your own views ?” said t 
king, smiling. ie EL XACHY. ives: 
‘Explain yourself.” 
“Tt is simple enough. I am the man whois needed to make the mon 
come in ; he, the man who is needed to prevent it leaving.” ‘ 
“Nay, nay, monsieur le surintendant, you will presently say somethit 
which will correct this good opinion ?” Al 
“Do you mean as far as administrative abilities are concerned, sire” 

6 Ves.” 
“ Not in the slightest.” ——“ Really »” 
Upon my honour, sire, I do not know throughout France a better clei 
than M. Colbert.” 
This word “clerk” did not possess, in 1661, the somewhat “spoken 


] 
| 
A 
] 
} 


signification which is attached to it in the present day; but, as spoken } 
Fouquet, whom the king had addressed as the surintendant, it seemed | 
acquire an insignificant and petty character, which served admirably } 
restore Fouquet to his place, and Colbert to his own. | 
“And yet,” said Louis XIV., “it was he, however, who, notwithstan 
ing his economy, had the arrangement of my /éées here at Fontainebleat 
and I assure you, Monsieur Fouquet, that in no way has he interfered wit 
the expenditure of money.” Fouquet bowed, but did not reply. 
‘Is it not your opinion, too ?” said the king, & 
“T think, sire,” he replied, “that M. Colbert has done what he had t 
do in an exceedingly orderly mannei, and that he deserves, in this 
spect, all the praise your majesty may bestow upon him.” 
The word “orderly” was a proper accompaniment for the wa 
“clerk.” The king possessed that extreme sensitiveness of organi: 
tion, that delicacy of perception, which pierced through and detected f 
regular order of feelings and sensations, before the actual sensations the 
selves, and he therefore comprehended that the clerk had, in Fouque 
opinion, been too full of method and order in his arrangements ; in othe 
words, that the magnificent /é¢es of Fontainebleau might have been ren 
dered more magnificent still) The king consequently felt that there wai 
something in the amusements he had provided with which some person 0 
another might be able to find fault ; he experienced a little of the annoy 
ance felt by a person coming from the provinces to Paris, dressed out 
the very best clothes which his wardrobe can furnish, and finds that t 
fashionably dressed man there looks at him either too much or not enoug 
This part of the conversation, which Fouquet had carried on with so mut 
moderation, yet with such extreme tact, inspired the king with the highe 
esteem for the character of the man and the capacity of the ministe 
Fouquet took his leave at two o’clock in the morning, and the king went 
bed a little uneasy and confused at the indirect lesson he had just receivet 
and two good quarters of an hour were employed by him in going ov 
again in his memory the embroideries, the tapestries, the bills of fare of 
various bouquets, the architecture of the triumphal arches, the arrang 
ments for the illuminations and fireworks, all the offspring of the “cle 
Colbert’s ” invention. The result was, that the king passed in review be 
fore him everything that had taken place during the last eight days, and de 
cided that faults could be found in his jétes. But Fouquet, by his politenes: 
his thoughtful consideration, and his generosity, had injured Colbert more 
deeply than the latter by his artifice, his ill-will, and his persevering hatred 
had ever succeeded in injuring Fouquet. @ 


FONTAINEBLEAU AT TWO O'CLOCK, 565 


CHAPTER CXXIII. 
FONTAINEBLEAU AT TWO O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. 


3 we have seen, Saint-Aignan had quitted the king’s apartment at the very 
loment the surintendant entered it. Saint-Aignan was charged with a 
ission which required despatch, and he was going to do his utmost to 
tn his time to the best possible advantage. He whom we have intro- 
iced as the king’s friend was indeed an uncommon personage ; he was one 
“those valuable courtiers whose vigilance and acuteness of perception 
rew all past and future favourites into the shade, and counterbalanced, 
7 his close attention, the servility of Dangeau, who was not the favourite, 
it the toady of the king. M. de Saint-Aignan began to think what was 
be done in the present position of affairs. He reflected that his first 
formation ought to come from De Guiche. He therefore set out in 
arch of him, but De Guiche, whom we saw disappear behind one of the 
ings of the chateau, and who seemed to have returned to his own apart- 
ents, had not entered the chateau. Saint-Aignan therefore, went in quest 
‘ him, and after having turned, and twisted, and searched in every direc- 
on, he perceived something like a human form leaning against a tree. 
his figure was as motionless as a statue, and seemed deeply engaged in 
oking at a window, although its curtains were closely drawn. As this 
indow happened to be Madame’s, Saint-Aignan concluded that the form 
1 question must be that of De Guiche. He advanced cautiously, and 
vund that he was not mistaken. De Guiche had, after his conversation 
ith Madame, carried away such a weight of happiness, that all his strength 
€ mind was hardly sufficient to enable him to support it. On his side, 
aint-Aignan knew that De Guiche had had something to do with La 
‘allitre’s introduction to Madame’s household, for a courtier knows every- 
iing and forgets nothing ; but he had never learned under what title or 
onditions De Guiche had conferred his protection upon La Valli¢re. But, 
s in asking a great many questions it is singular if a man does not learn 
smething, Saint-Aignan reckoned upon learning much or little, as it might 
e, if he were to question De Guiche with that extreme tact, and, at the 
ame time, with that persistence in attaining an object of which he was 
apable. Saint-Aignan’s plan was the following :—if the information ob- 
ruined was satisfactory, he would inform the king, with effusion, that he 
ad alighted upon a pearl, and claim the privilege of setting the pearl in 
uestion in the royal crown. If the information were unsatisfactory, which 
fter all might be possible, he would examine how far the king cared about 
‘a Valligre, and make use of his information in such a manner as to get 
id of the girl altogether, and thereby obtain all the merit of her banish- 
nent with all those ladies of the court who might have any pretensions 
pon the king’s heart, beginning with Madame and finishing with the 
jueen. In case the king should show himself obstinate in his fancy, then 
ie would not produce the damaging information he had obtained, but 
vould let La Valligre know that this damaging information was carefully 
sreserved in a secret drawer of her confidant’s memory ; in this manner 
ie would be able to display his generosity before the poor girl’s eyes, and 
0 keep her in constant suspense between gratitude and apprehension, to 
such an extent as to make her a friend at court, interested, as an accom- 
slice, in making her accomplice’s fortune, while she was making her own. 
As far as concerned the day when the bomb-shell of the past should burst, 


f ever there should be any occasion for its bursting, Saint-Aignan pro- 


~- e+ 


566 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


mised himself that he would by that time have taken all possible precay 
tions, and would pretend an entire ignorance of the matter to the king 
while, with regard to La Valliére, he would still, even on that day, have a: 
opportunity of being considered the personification of generosity. It wa 
with such ideas as these, which the fire of covetousness had caused to daw: 
into being-in half an hour, that Saint-Aignan, the best son in the world 
as La Fontaine would have said, determined to get De Guiche into convers| 
sation ; in other words, to trouble him in his happiness—a happiness 0 
which Saint-Aignan was quite ignorant. It was one o’clock in the morn4 
ing when Saint-Aignan perceived De Guiche, standing motionless, leaning] 
against the trunk of a tree, with his eyes fastened upon the lighted window, 
One o'clock in the morning, that is, the softest hour of night-time, tha 
which painters crown with myrtles and budding poppies, the hour wher 
eyes are heavy, hearts are throbbing, and heads feel dull and languid—an 
hour which casts upon the day which has passed away a look of regret, 
which addresses a loving greeting to the dawning light. For De Guiche 
it was the dawn of unutterable happiness ; he would have bestowed a trea. 
sure upon a beggar, had he stood before him, to secure him an uninterrupted 
indulgence in his dreams. It was precisely at this hour that Saint-Aignan, 
badly advised—selfishness always counsels badly—came and struck him on 
the shoulder, at the very moment he was murmuring a word or rather a 
name. 

“Ah !” he cried loudly, “I was looking for you.” 

“For me?” said De Guiche, starting. 

“Yes ; and I find you seemingly moon-struck. Is it likely, my dear 
comte, you have been attacked by a poetical malady, and are maki 
verses ?” 

The young man forced a smile upon his lips, while a thousand conflict: 
ing sensations were muttering against Saint-Aignan in the deep recesses — 
of his heart. “ Perhaps,” he said; “ but by what happy chance;—” 

‘Ah, your remark shows that you did not hear what I said.” a 

“ How so ?”»-—“ Why, I began by telling you ~ was looking for you.” 


“You were looking for me ?” 4 
“Yes ; and I find you now in the Very act? 
“Of doing what, I should like to know ?” 
Of singing the praises of Phillis.” 
“Well, I do not deny it,” said De Guiche, laughing. “Yes, my deat 

comte, I was celebrating Phillis’ praises,” 

“ And you have acquired the right to do so.” 


Tire Vou: to dour ot tts you, the intrepid protector of every | 
beautiful and clever woman.” : a 
“In the name of goodness, what story have you got hold of now ” a 
“ Acknowledged truths, I am well aware. But stay amoment; I am in 
love.” . 
OTT veces 


“So much the better, my dear comte ; tell me all about it.” And De 
Guiche, afraid that Saint-Aignan might perhaps presently observe the 
window where the light was still burning, took the comte’s arm, and en- 
deavoured to lead him away. 

“Oh,” said the latter, resisting, “do not take me towards those dark 
woods ; it is too damp there. Let us stay in the moonlight.” And while 
he yielded to the pressure of De Guiche’s arm, he remained in the flower- 
garden adjoining the chateau. 


* Well,” said De Guiche, resigning himself, “lead me where you like, 
and ask me what you please.” 


FONTAINEBLEAU AT TWO OCLOCK. 567 


“It is impossible to be more agreeable than you are.” And then, after 
moment's silence, Saint-Aignan continued, “I wish you to tell me some- 
ing about a certain person in whom you have interested yourself.” 
“And with whom you are in love ?” 

«TJ will neither admit nor deny it. You understand that a man does not 
ry readily place his heart where there is no hope of return, and that it 
‘most essential he should take measures of security in advance.” 

“ You are right,” said De Guiche, with a sigh ; “a heart is a precious 
. 7? 

“Mine particularly is very tender, and in that light I present it to you.” 
Oh, you are well known, comte. Well ” 

|“ It is simply a question of Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente 
Why, my dear Saint-Aignan, you are losing your senses, I should 
vink.” 

|“ Why so?” “J have never shown or taken any interest in Made- 
\oiselle de Tonnay-Charente.” 

“Bah Y—_* Never.” 

Did you not obtain admission for Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente 
ito Madame’s household ?” 

~“ Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente—and you ought to know it better 
aan any one else, my dear comte—is of a sufficiently good family to make 
er presence here desirable, and a greater reason therefore to render her 
dmittance very easy.” ——“* You are jesting.” 

“No; and upon my honour I do not know what you mean.” 

_ And you had nothing, then, to do with her admission ?»——“ No.” 

* You do not know her ?” 

“T saw her for the first time the day she was presented to Madame. 
Therefore, as I have never taken any interest in her, as I do not know her, 
am not able to give you the information you require.” And De Guiche 
nade a movement as though he were about to leave his questioner. 

“Nay, nay, one moment, my dear comte,” said Saint-Aignan ; * you 
shall not escape me in this manner.” 

“Why, really it seems to me that it is now time to return to our apart- 
nents.” 

“ And yet you were not going in when I—did not meet, but found you.” 

“Therefore, my dear comte,” said De Guiche, “as long as you have 
anything to say to me, I place myself entirely at your service.” 

“ And you are quite right in doing so. What matters half an hour more 
or less? Will you swear that you have ao injurious communications to 
make to me about her, and that any injurious communications you might 
possibly have to make are not the cause of your silence ?” 

“ Oh, I believe the poor child to be as pure as crystal.” 

“You overwhelm me with joy. And yet I do not wish to have towards 
you the appearance of a man so badly informed as I seem. It is quite 
certain that you supplied the princess’s household with the ladies of 
honour ; nay, a song even has been written about it.” 

“You know that songs are written about everything.” 

“ Do you know it 2” 

“No: sing it to me, and I shall make its acquaintance.” 

“T cannot tell you how it begins ; I only remember how it ends.” 

“Very well; at all events, that is something.” 

‘«« Guiche is the furnisher 
Of the maids of honour.’ ’ 


“The idea is weak, and the rhyme poor,” said De Guiche. 


” 


568 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONWNE, 

“What can you expect, my dear fellow? It is not Racine or Molié 
but La Feuillade’s ; and a great lord cannot rhyme like a beggarly poet, 

“It is very unfortunate, though, that you only remember the termination, 

“ Stay, stay * I have just recollected the beginning of the second couplet 

‘** He has stock’d the birdcage ; 
Montalais and——’ ” 

“And La Valliére !” exclaimed Guiche, impatiently, and completel 
ignorant, besides, of St. Aignan’s object. 

“Yes, yes, you have it—you have hit upon the word La Valliére.” 

“A grand discovery, indeed.” 

“Montalais and La Valli¢re—these, then, are the two young girls ir 
whom you interested yourself,” said Saint-Aignan, laughing. 

“And so Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente’s name is not to be me 
with in the song ?”—— No, indeed.” 

“And you are satisfied, then ?” 

“ Perfectly ; but I find Montalais there,” said Saint-Aignan, still laughing 

“Oh, you will find her everywhere ; she is a most active young lady.” 

“You know her ?” 

“Indirectly. She was the protégée of a man named Malicorne, who isa 
protégée of Manicamp’s ; Manicamp asked me to get the situation of maid 
of honour for Montalais in Madame’s household, and a situation for Mali- 
corne, as an officer in Monsieur’s household. Well, I asked for the ap- 
pointments, and you know very well that I have a weakness for that drol' 
fellow Manicamp.” Fé 

“ And you obtained what you sought ?” P 

“For Montalais, yes ; for Malicorne, yes and no ; foras yet he is only 
tolerated there ; do you wish to know anything else ?” E 

“The last word of the couplet still remains, La Valliére,” said Saint» 
Aignan, resuming the smile which had so tormented Guiche. p 

“Well,” said the latter, “it is true that I obtained admission for her in 
Madame’s household.” -—“ Ah, ah !” said Saint-Aignan. . 

“But,” continued Guiche, assuming a great coldness of manner, “ you 


will oblige me, comte, not to jest about that name. Mademoiselle Labaume 
Leblanc de la Valliére is a young lady perfectly well-conducted.” : 

“Perfectly well-conducted, do you say ?”—-—“ Yes.” x 

“Then you have not heard the last rumour?” exclaimed Saint-Aignan. — 

“No, and you will do me a service, my dear comte, in keeping this re- 
port to yourself, and to those who circulate it.” a 

“Ah! bah ! you take the matter up very seriously.” ik 

‘Yes ; Mademoiselle de Vallitre is beloved by one of my best friends,” 

Saint-Aignan started. 

“ Oh, oh !” he said. 

“Yes, comte,” continued Guiche; “and consequently, you, the most 
distinguished man in France for his polished courtesy of manner, will 
understand that I cannot allow my friend to be placed ina ridiculous 
position.” : 

Saint-Aignan began to bite his nails, partially from vexation, and par- 
tially from disappointed curiosity. Guiche made him a very profound 
bow. . 

“You send me away ?” said Saint-Aignan, who was dying to learn the 
name of the friend. 

“I do not send you away, my dear fellow.—I am going to finish my 
lines to Phillis.” 

“ And those lines-——” 


nm 


FONTAINEBLEAU AT TWO O'CLOCK. sé 


‘Area guatrain. You understand, I trust, that a guatrain is a serious 


tir 2“ Of course.” 
* And as, of these four lines, of which it is naturally composed, I have 


‘three and a half to make, I need my undivided attention.” 


‘IT quite understand. Adieu! comte. By the bye »_—‘§ What fr” 
‘Are you quick at making verses >». Wonderfully so.” 

‘Will you quite have finished the three lines and a half to-morrow 
ning ?’——-“ I hope so.” 

‘Adieu, then, until to-morrow.”——“ Adieu, adieu !” 


Saint-Aignan was obliged to accept the notice to quit; he accordingly 
| sc, and disappeared behind the hedge. ‘Their conversation had led 
liche and Saint-Aignan a good distance from the chdteaw. 

Every mathematician, every poet, and every dreamer, has his means of 
rerting his attention ; Saint-Aignan, then, on leaving Guiche, found him- 
fat the extremity of the grove,—at the very spot where the outbuildings 
* the servants begin, and where, behind thickets of acacias and chest- 
t-trees interlacing their branches, which were hidden by masses of 
smatis and young vines, the wall which separated the woods from the 
urtyard of these outbuildings, was erected. Saint-Aignan, alone, took 
e path which led towards these buildings ; Guiche going off in the very 
posite direction. ‘The one proceeded towards the flower-garden, while 
e other bent his steps towards the walls. | Saint-Aignan walked on _be- 
een rows of the mountain-ash, lilac, and hawthorn, which formed an 
most impenetrable roof above his head ; his feet were buried in the soft 
‘avel and in the thick moss. He was deliberating over a means of taking 
5 revenge, which it seemed difficult for him to carry out, and was vexed 
ith himself for not having learnt more about La Valliére, notwithstand- 
g the ingenious measures he had resorted to in order to acquire some 
formation about her, when suddenly the murmur of a human voice 
tracted his attention. He heard whispers, the complaining tones of a 
oman’s voice mingled with entreaties, smothered laughter, sighs, and 
alfstifled exclamations of surprise ; but above them all, the woman’s 
vice prevailed. Saint-Aignan stopped to look about him ; he perceived 
ith the greatest surprise that the voices proceeded, not from the ground 
xt from the branches of the trees. As he glided along under the covered 
alk, he raised his head, and observed at the top of the wall a woman 
arched upon a ladder, in eager conversation with a man seated on a 
ranch of a chestnut tree, whose head alone could be seen, the rest of his 
ody being concealed in the thick covert of the chestnut. The woman 
‘as on the near side of the wall, the man on the other side of it. 


pee 


CHAPTER CXXIV. 
THE LABYRINTH. 


\AINT-AIGNAN, who had only been seeking for information, had met with 
nadventure. This was indeed a piece of good luck. Curious to learn 
yhy, and particularly about what, this man and woman were convers- 
ng at such an hour and in such a singular position, Saint-Aignan 
nade himself as small as he possibly could, and approached almost 
inder the rounds of the ladder. And taking measures to make himself 
is comfortable as possible, he leaned his back against a tree and 
istened, and heard the following conversation. The woman was the first 


0 speak. 


570 _ YHE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“Really, Monsieur Manicamp,” she said in a voice which, notwithstan¢ 
ing the reproaches she addressed to him, preserved a marked tone¢ 
coquetry, “really, your indiscreetness is of a very dangerous characte; 
We cannot talk long in this manner without being observed. ° ‘ 

“That is very probable,” said the, man in the calmest and coolest 
tones. ; 
“In that case, then, what would people say? Oh! if any one were ¢| 
see me, I declare I should die from very shame.” 

“Oh ! that would be very silly, and I do not believe you capable of it,’ 

“It might have been different if there had been anything between us. 
but to do an injury to myself gratuitously, is really very foolish of me 3 3 
adieu, Monsieur Manicamp.” . 

“So far so good; I know the man, and now let me see who the wom | 
is,” said Saint-Aignan, watching the rounds of the ladder, on which we 
standing two pretty little feet covered with blue satin shoes, 

“Nay, nay, for pity’s sake, my dear Montalais,” cried Manicamy 
“deuce take it, do not go away; I havea gtcat many things to say to yor 
of the very greatest importance, still.” i 

“ Montalais,” said Saint-Aignan to himself, “ one of the three. Each o| 
the three gossips had her adventure, only I had thought that the hero of 
this one’s adventure was Malicorne and not Manicamp.” ‘e 

At her companion’s appeal, Montalais stopped in the middle of he 
descent, and Saint-Aignan could observe the unfortunate Manicamp climb 
from one branch -of the chestnut-tree to another, either to improve hi 
situation or to overcome the fatigue consequent upon his indifferent pos 


“ Now listen to me,” said he; “ you quite understand, I hope, that m 
intentions are perfectly innocent.” % 

“Of course. But why did you write me a letter stimulating my grati- 
tude towards you? Why did you ask me for an interview at such an hour 
and in such a place as this ?” - 

“TI stimulated your gratitude in reminding you that it was I who had | 
been the means of your becoming attached to Madame’s household ; be- 
cause most anxiously desirous of obtaining the interview which you have | 
been kind enough to grant me, | employed the means which appeared to. 
me the most certain to insure it. And my reason for soliciting it, at such 
an hour and in such a locality, was, that the hour seemed to me to be the 
most prudent and the locality the least Open to observation. Moreover, 


I had occasion to speak to you upon certain subjects which require both | 
prudence and solitude.” 4 


a 
Monsieur Manicamp !” 
‘“ But everything in the most perfect honour, I assure you.” @ 
“T think, Monsieur Manicamp, that it will be more becoming in me to 
take my leave.” 4 
“Nay, listen to me, or I shall jump from my perch here to yours, and 
be careful how you set me at defiance ; for a branch of this chéestnut-tree- 
causes me a good deal of annoyance, and may provoke me to extreme 
measures, Do not follow the example of this branch, then, but listen to 
me. a 3 
“T am listening, and I will agree to do so ; but be as brief as possible, 
for if you have a branch of the chestnut-tree which annoys you, I wish you 
to understand that one of the rounds of the ladder is hurting the soles of ’ 
my feet, and my shoes are being cut through.” 
» “Do me the kindness to give me your hand ?>——« Why ?” 


H 
| 
THE LABYRINTH. 571 


| 

‘Will you have the goodness to do so ?” 

‘There is my hand, then ; but what are you going to do 2” 

“To draw you towards me.” 

‘What for? You surely do not wish me to join you in the tree 2” 

‘No; but I wish yeu to sit down upon the wall ; there, that will do ; 
re is quite room enough, and I would give a great deal to be allowed to 
down beside you.” 

‘No, no ; you are very well where you are; we should be seen.” 

‘Do you really think so ?” said Manicamp, in an insinuating voice. 

*T am sure of it.” | 

‘Very well, I remain in my tree, then, although I cannot be worse 


{ 


iced.” ) 
“Monsieur Manicamp, we are wandering away from the subject.” 

*“ You're right ; we are so.” 

“You wrote me a letter ?”——“ I did.” 

“Why did you write ?” 

“Fancy, that at two o’clock to-day, De Guiche left.” 

What then ?” 

“Seeing him set off, I followed him, as I usually do.” 

“ Of course, I see that, since you are here now.” 

“Don't be ina hurry. You are aware, I suppose, that De Guiche is up 
his very neck in disgrace ?”—-—“ Alas ! yes.” 

“Tt was the very height of imprudence on his part, then, to come to 
yntainebleau to seek those who had at Paris sent him away into exile, 
d particularly those from whom he had been separated.” 

“ Monsieur Manicamp, you reason like Pythagoras of old.” 

“ Moreover, De Guiche is as obstinate asa man in love can be, and he 
fused to listen to any of my remonstrances. I begged, I implored him, 
it he would not listen to anything. Oh! the deuce !” 

“ What's the matter?” 

“J beg your pardon, Mademoiselle Montalais, but this confounded 
anch, about which I have already had the honour of speaking to you, 
is just torn a certain portion of my dress.” 

“Tt is quite dark,” replied Montalais, laughing ; “so, pray continue, M. 
anicamp.” 

“ De Guiche set off on horseback as hard as he could, I following him, 
-a slower pace. You quite understand that to throw one’s self into the 
ater, for instance, with a friend with the same headlong speed as he hin~ 
If would do it, would be the act either of a fool or a madman. I there- 
re allowed De Guiche to get in advance, and I proceeded on my way 
ith a commendable slowness of pace, feeling quite sure that my unfortu- 
ite friend would not be received, or, if he had been, that he would ride 
f again at the very first cross, disagreeable answer ; and that I should 
e him returning much faster than he had gone, without having, myself, 
ne farther than Ris or Melun—and that even was a good distance, you 
ill admit, for it is eleven leagues to get there and as many to return.” 
Montalais shrugged her shoulders. 

“Taugh as much as you like; but if, instead of being comfortably seated 
1 the top of the wall, as you are, you were sitting on this branch, as if 
yu were on horseback, you would, like Augustus, aspire to descend.” 
“Be patient, my dear M. Manicamp, a few minutes will soon pass away; 
yu were saying, I think, that you had gone beyond Ris and Melun.” 
“Yes; I went through Ris and Melun, and | continued to go on, more 
id more surprised that I did not see him returning ; and here I am at 


572 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. , 
Fontainebleau ; I look for, and inquire after De Guiche everywhere, b 
no one has seen him, no one in the town has spoken to him; he arrivi 
riding at full gallop, he entered the chdteau, where he has disappeared, | 
have been here at Fontainebleau since eight o’clock this evening, inquiri 
for De Guiche in every direction, but no De Guiche can be found. Ie 
dying from uneasiness. You understand. that I have not been running n 
‘head into the lion’s den, in entering the chéteau, as my imprudent frier 
has done; I came at once to the servants’ offices, and I succeeded in ge 
ting a letter conveyed to you; and now, for Heaven’s sake, my dear your 
lady, relieve me from my anxiety.” 

“There will be no difficulty in that, my dear M. Manicamp ; yor 
friend De Guiche has been admirably received,”—-—* Bah !” 

“ The king made quite a fuss with him.” 

“The king who exiled him !” | 


“Madame smiled upon him, and Monsieur appears to like him bett¢ 
than ever.” 4 


“Ah! ah!” said Manicamp, “that explains to me, then, why and | 


he has remained. And did he not say anything about me ?” j 
“ Not a word.” ; 
“That is very unkind. What is he doing now ?” 

“In all probability he is asleep, or if not asleep, he is dreaming.” | 

‘And what have they been doing all the evening ??_—“ Dancing.” | 

“The famous ballet? How did De Guiche look ?»——“ Superb.” | 

“Dear fellow! And now, pray forgive me, Mademoiselle Montalais: 


but all that I now have to do is to pass from where I now am to vi 
apartment.” . 


“What do you mean ?” 


“T cannot suppose that the door of the chéteau willbe opened for m 
at this hour ; and as for spending the night upon this branch, I possibl 
might not object to do so, but I declare that is impossible for any othe 
animal than a papegad to do it.” i 

“But M. Manicamp, I cannot introduce a man over the wall in tha 
manner.” | 

“Two, if you please,” said a second voice, but in so timid a tone tha 
it seemed as if its owner felt the utter impropriety of sucha request. / 

“Good gracious !” exclaimed Montalais, “ who is that speaking to me? 

“ Malicorne, Mademoiselle Montalais.” ) 

And, as Malicorne spoke, he raised himself from the ground to the 
lowest branches, and thence to the height of the wall. | 

“* Monsieur Malicorne ! why you are both mad : 

“How do you do, Mademoiselle Montalais »” inquired Malicorne. 

“TI needed but this !” said Montalais, in despair. : 

“Oh! Mademoiselle Montalais,” murmured Malicorne ; “do not be 50 
severe, I beseech you.” | 

“Tn fact,” said Manicamp, “ we are your friends, and you cannot possibly 
wish your friends to lose their lives ; and to leave us to pass the night 
where we are, is, in fact, condemning us both to death.” 

“Oh !” said Montalais, ‘ Monsieur Malicorne is so robust that a night 
passed in the open air with the beautiful stars above him, will not do 
him any harm, and it will be a just punishment for the trick he has 
played me.” | 

“Be it so, then; let Malicorne arrange matters with you in the best 
way he can; I pass over,” said Manicamp. And bending down the 
famous branch against which he had directed such bitter complaints, he 


i 
| 
3 


THE LABYRINTH. 573 


seeded, by the assistance of his hands and feet, in seating hirhself side 
side with Montalais, who tried to push him back, while he endeavoured 
aaintain his position, and in which, moreover, he succeeded. Having 
sn possession of the ladder, he stepped on it, and then gallantly 
red his hand to his fair antagonist. While this was going on, Mali- 
ae had installed himself in the chestnut-tree, in the very place Manicamp 
_ just left, determining within himself to succeed him in the one which 
now occupied. Manicamp and Montalais descended a, few rounds of 
adder, Manicamp insisting, and Montalais laughing and objecting. 
suddenly Malicorne’s voice was heard in tones of entreaty :— 
‘I entreat you, Mademoiselle Montalais, not to leave me here. My 
ition is very insecure, and some accident will be sure to befall me, if I 
smpt unaided to reach the other side of the wall; it does not matter it 
inicamp tears his clothes, for he can make use of M. de Guiche’s ward- 
ye ; but I shall not be able to use even those belonging to M. Manicamp, 
they will be torn.” 
My opinion,” said Manicamp, without taking any notice of Malicorne’s 
nentations, “is that the best thing to be done is to go and look for De 
fiche without delay, for by-and-bye, perhaps, I may not be able to get 
his apartments.” 
“That is my own opinion too,” replied Montalais ; “so goat once, Mon- 
uur Manicamp.” 
“A thousand thanks. Adieu, Mademoiselle Montalais,” said Mani- 
mp, jumping to the ground, “ your kindness cannot possibly be ex- 
e Ph 


“ Farewell, M. Manicamp ; I am now going to get rid of M. Malicorne.” 
Malicorne sighed. Manicamp went away a few paces, but returning 
the foot of the ladder, he said, “ By-the-bye, which is the way to M. de 
iche’s apartments ?” 

“ Nothing is easier. You go along by the hedge until you reach a place 
here the paths cross.” —“ Yes.” 

“ You will see four paths.” ——“ Exactly.” 

“ One of which you will eke. 

“Which of them ??——“ That to the right.” 

“To the right ?”—“No, to the left.” 
“The deuce !——“ No, no, wait a minute 

“You do not seem to be quite sure. Think again, I beg.” 

“ You take the middle path.” “ But there are four.” 

“So there are. All that I know is, that one of the four paths leads 
raight to Madame’s apartments ; and that one I am well acquainted 
ith.” 

“But M. de Guiche is not in Madame’s apartments, I suppose ?” 

“6 No, indeed.” 

“Well, then the path which leads to Madame’s apartments is of no use 
> me, and I would willingly exchange it for the one that leads to where 
{ de Guiche is lodging.” 

“ Of course, and I know that as well ; but as for indicating from where 
ye are, it is quite impossible.” 

“ Well, let us suppose that I have succeeded in finding that fortunate 


yath.” 
“In that case you are almost there, for you have nothing else to do but 


o cross the labyrinth.” 
“Nothing more than that? The deuce! so there is a labyrinth as 


vell ?” 


+P] 


| 
574 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. : 
“Yes, and complicated enough too; even in daylight, one may son 
times be deceived,-—there are turnings and windings without end ; int 
first place, you must turn three times to the right, then twice to the le 
then turn once—stay, is it once or twice, though? at all events, wh 
you get clear of the labyrinth, you will see an avenue of sycamores, al 
this avenue leads straight to the pavilion in which M. de Guiche | 
lodging.” ; | 
“ Nothing could be more clearly indicated,” said Manicamp ; “and 
have not the slightest doubt in the world that if I were to follow yo 
directions, I should lose my way immediately. I have therefore a slig 
service to ask of you.” | 
“What may that be ?” | 
“That you will offer me your arm and guide me yourself, like another. 
like another—I used to know mythelogy, but other important matte 
have made me forget it ; pray come with me, then ?” | 
“And am I to be abandoned, then >” cried Malicorne. P| 
“It is quite impossible, monsieur;’ said Montalais to Manicamp ; “if 
were to be seen with you at such an hour, what would be said of me” 
‘Your own conscience would acquit you,” said Manicamp, sentei 
tiously. 
“Impossible, monsieur, impossible.” | 

“In that case, let me assist Malicorne to get down ; he is a very inte 
ligent fellow, and possesses a very keen scent ; he will guide me, and... 
we lose ourselves, both of us will be lost, and the one will save the othe 
If we are together, and should be met by any one, we shall look as if w 
had some matter of business in hand ; whilst alone I should have th: 
appearance either of a lover or a robber. Come, Malicorne, here is th 
ladder.” ‘ | 

Malicorne had already stretched out one of his legs towards the top o 
the wall, when Manicamp said, in a whisper, “ Hush !” | 

“ What's the matter ?” inquired Montalais. { 

“T hear footsteps.” “Good heavens !” 

In fact, the fancied footsteps soon became a reality ; the foliage wa: 
pushed aside, and Saint-Aignan appeared, with a smile on his lips, and his 
hand stretched out towards them, taking every one by surprise ; that is tc 
say, Malicorne upon the tree with his head stretched out, Montalais upor 
the rounds of the ladder and clinging to it tightly, and Manicamp on the 
ground with his foot advanced ready to set off “Good evening, Mani- 
camp,” said the comte, “I am glad to see you, my dear fellow ; we missed 
you this evening, and a good many inquiries have been made about you. 
Mademoiselle de Montalais, your most obedient servant.” | 

Montalais blushed. “Good heavens !” she exclaimed, hiding her face 
in both her hands. 

“ Pray reassure yourself ; I know how perfectly innocent you are, and] 
shall give a good account of you. Manicamp, do you follow me ; the 
hedge, the cross-paths, and labyrinth, I am well acquainted with them all; 
I will be your Ariadne. There now, your mythological name is found at 
last.” ——“ Perfectly true, comte.” 


“And take M. Malicorne away with you at the same time,” said: 
Montalais, | 

“No, indeed,” said Malicorne ; “ M. Manicamp has conversed with you as. 
lone as he liked, and now it is my turn, if you please; I have a multitude 
of things to tell you about our future prospects.” | 


ou hear,” said the comte, laughing ; “stay with him, Mademoiselle 


MALICORNE TURNED OUT OF THE HOTEL. 575 


iontalais. This is, indeed, a night for secrets.” And, taking Manicamp’s 
n, the comte led him rapidly away in the direction of the road which 
iontalais knew so well, and indicated so badly. Montalais followed them 


q 


th her eyes as long as she could perceive them, 


4 
‘ 


| Pd 
| CHAPTER CXXV. 
JW MALICORNE HAD BEEN TURNED OUT OF THE HOTEL OF THE 
“BEAU PAON.” 


'HILE Montalais was engaged in looking after the comte and Manicamp, 
alicorne had taken advantage of the young girl’s attention being drawn 
vay to render his position somewhat more tolerable, and when she turned 
‘und, she immediately noticed the change which had taken place ; for 

. had seated himself, like a monkey, upon the wall, with his feet resting 
jon the top rounds of the ladder. The foliage of the wild vine and the 
yneysuckle curled round his head like a Faun, while the twisted ivy 
-anches represented tolerably enough his cloven feet. Montalais required 
>thing to make her resemblance to a Dryad as complete as possible. 
Well,” she said, ascending another round of the ladder; “are you re- 
ylved to render me unhappy? Have you not persecuted me enough, tyrant 
iat you are ?” 

“Ta tyrant !” said Malicorne. 

“Ves, you are always compromising me, Monsieur Malicorne ; you are 
perfect monster of wickedness.” urs 
““ What have you to do with Fontainebleau ? Is not Orleans your place 
f residence ?” 

“Do you ask me what I have to do here? I wanted to see you.” 

“ Ah, great need of that.” 

“ Not as far as concerns yourself, perhaps, but as far as I am concerned. 
[ademoiselle Montalais, you know very well that I have left my home, 
nd that, for the future, I have no other place of residence than that which 
‘ou may happen to have. As you, therefore, are staying at Fontainebleau 
t the present moment, I have come to Fontainebleau.” 

-Montalais shrugged her shoulders. “You wished to see me, did you 
‘ot ”” she said.——“ Of course.” 

| “Very well, you have seen me,—you are satisfied ; so now go away.” 
Oh, no,” said Malicorne ; “JT came to talk with you as well as to 
ee you.” 

“Very well, we will talk by-and-by, and in another place than this.” 

“ By-and-by! heaven only knows if [shall meet you by-and-by in 
nother place. We shall never find a more favourable one than this.” 

“ But I cannot this evening, nor at the present moment.” 

. “Why not ?” 

“ Because a thousand things have happened to-night.” 

“Well, then, my affair will make a thousand and one.” 

“No, no ; Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente is waiting for me in our 


‘oom to communicate something of the very greatest importance.” 


“ How long has she been waiting ?”——“For an hour at least.” 
“In that case,” said Malicorne, tranquilly, “she will wait a few minutes 
onger.” 


“Monsieur Malicorne,” said Montalais, “you are forgetting yourself.” 
“You should rather say that it is you who are forgetting me, and that I 
am cetting impatient at the part you make me play here, indeed! For the 
§ g ump Pp é 


| 


376 4HE VICOMTE DE BRA GELONNE, 


last week I have been prowling about among the company here, and | 
i | 
“Have you been prowling about here for a week, M. Malicorne ?” 


“Like a wolf; sometimes I have been burnt by the fireworks, whi; 


always half-famished, always fatigued to death, with the view of a We 
always before me, and the prospect of having to scale it perhaps. Upc 


in, unle; 


“Well, then, tell me, what do you wish,—what do you re 
you insist upon ?” said Montalais, in a submissive tone. 


“Do you mean to tell me that you did not know I was at F ontain¢ 
6¢ I Pp? = 


““ Nay, be frank.” “T suspected so.” | 
“Well, then, could you not have contrived during the last week to hay. 
seen me once a day, at least ?” 
“T have always been prevented, M. Malicorne.”—“ Fiddlestick ie 
“Ask my companion, if you do not believe me.” 
“T shall ask no one to explain matters which I know better 
“ Compose yourself, M. Malicorne ; things will change.” 
“They must indeed.” 
“You know that, whether I see you or not 
Montalais, in a coaxing tone of voice. 
“Oh, you are thinking of me, are you ! well, and is there anything 
new ?”»-—“ What about ?” 
About my post in Monsieur’s household.” ) 
“Ah, my dear Monsieur Malicorne, no one has ventured lately tc 
approach his royal highness,” “Well, but now »” : 
“ Now, it is quite a different thing ; since yesterday he has left off being 
jealous.” “ Bah ! how has his jealousy subsided >” | 
“It has been diverted into another channel,”—— 
“A report was spread that the king had fallen j 
else, and Monsieur was tranquillised immediately.” 
“And who spread the report ?” 
Montalais lowered her voice. 
that Madame and the king have 
“Ah, ah !” said Malicorne ; “ 
what about poor M. de Guiche ” : 
* Oh, as for him, he is completely turned off.” 
‘“ Have they been writing to each other ?” 


NO, certainly not ; I have not seen a pen in either of their hands fur 
the last week.” 


“On what terms are you with Madame »” 
“And with the king ?” 


* The king always smiles at me whenever I pass him.” 


“Good. Now tell me whom have the two lovers selected to serve for 
their screen »” “La Valliére.” 


(Ob,oh, poor inl |. We ase prevent that.” —_“ Why >” 
“ Because, if M. Raoul de Bragelonne were to suspect it, he would either 


quire,—what d 


| 


than any one,’ 
, | am thinking of you,” saic 


“Tell me all about it” 
n love with some one 


“ Between ourselves,” she said, “I think 
come to an understanding about it.” : 
that was the only way to manage it. But 


——“ The very best.” 


kill her or kill himself.” 


| 
| 


MALICORNE TURNED OUT OF THE HOTEL. 579 


Raoul, poor fellow | do you think so?” 

Women pretend to have a knowledge of the state of people’s affec- 
3,” said Malicorne, “and they do not even know how to read the 
ghts of their own minds and hearts. Well, I can tell you, that M. de 
zelonne loves La Valliére to such a degree that, if she pretended to 
tive him, he would, I repeat, either kill himself or kill her.” 

But the king is there to defend her,” said Montalais. 

The king!” exclaimed Malicorne ; “ Raoul would kill the king as he 
ld a common thief.” 

‘Good heavens !” said Montalais ; “you are mad, M. Malicorne.” 
Not in the least. Everything I have told you is, on the contrary, per 
ly serious ; and, for my own part, | know one thing.” 

What is that?” 

‘That I shall quietly tell Raoul of the trick.” 

Hush !” said Montalais, ascending another round of the ladder, so as 
approach Malicorne more closely, “do not open your lips to poor 
oul.” 

‘Why not ?——“ Because, as yet you know nothing at all.” 

‘What is the matter then ?” 

‘Why, this evening—but no one is listening, I hope ?” “No.” 

‘This evening, then, beneath the royal oak, La Valliére said aloud, and 
iocently enough, ‘I cannot conceive that when one has once seen the 
ig, one can ever love another man.’” 

Malicorne almost jumped off the wall. “ Unhappy girl! did she really 
7 that ?>—“ Word for word.” 

“ And she thinks so?” 

“La Valliére always thinks what she says.” 

“That positively cries aloud for vengeance. Why, women are the 
riest serpents,” said Malicorne. 

“Compose yourself, my dear Malicorne, compose yourself.” 

“No, no; let us take the evil in time, on the contrary. There is time 
ough yet to tell Raoul of ‘wr 

“Blunderer, on the contrary, it is too late,” replied Montalais. 


“ How so?” 
“Ta Valliére’s remark, which was intended for the king, reached its 


»stination.” 

“The king knows it then? The king was told of it, I suppose ?” 

“ The king heard it.” 

“ Ohimé/ as the cardinal used to say.” 

“The king was hidden in the thicket close to the royal oak.” 
“Tt follows, then,” said Malicorne, “that, for the future, the plan which 
ie king and Madame have arranged, will go as easily as if it were on 
heels, and will pass over poor Bragelonne’s body.” 


“ Precisely so.” 
“Well,” said Malicorne, after a moment’s reflection, “ao not let us inter- 


ose our poor selves between a large oak tree and a great king, for we 
hould certainly be ground to pieces.” 
“ The very thing I was going to say to you.” 
“ Tet us think of ourselves, then.”——“ My own idea.” 
Open your beautiful eyes, then.” 
“ And you your large ears.” 
“ Apyproach your little mouth for a kiss.” | 
Here,” said Montalais, who paid the debt immediately in ringing coin. 
& Now, let us consider. First, we have M. de Guiche, who is in love 


37 


578 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGEL ONNE. 


with Madame; then La Valli¢re, who is in love with the king ; next, 
king, who is in love both with Madame and La Valliére ; lastly, Monsie 
who loves no one but himself. Among all these loves, a noodle wo) 
make his fortune ; a greater reason, therefore, for sensible people like ) 
selves to do so.” | 

“There you are with your dreams again.” | 

“‘ Nay, rather with realities. Let me lead you, darling, I do not thi 
you have been very badly off hitherto.”—“ No,” j 

“Well, the future is guaranteed by the past. Only since all here thi 
of themselves before anything else, let us do so too.” 

“ Perfectly right.” 

* But of ourselves only.” “ Be it so.” | 

“ An offensive and defensive alliance.“ I am ready to swear it. 

“Put out your hand, then, and say, ‘ All for Malicorne? ” 

All for Malicorne.” 

* And I, ‘All for Montalais,’” replied Malicorne, stretching out his han 
in his turn. 

‘And now, what is to be done ?” 

“Keep your eyes and ears constantly open ; collect every means 
attack which may be serviceable against others ; never let anything 
about which can be used against ourselves,” 

“ Agreed.” ——“ Decided,” 

“Sworn to; and, now the agreement is entered into, good-bye.” 

“What do you mean by ‘good-bye ?” 

“ Of course, you can now return to your inn.” 

“To my inn 2” ¢ 

“Yes ; are you not lodging at the sign of the ‘ Beau Paon + 

“ Montalais, Montalais, you now see that you were aware of my bein 
at Fontainebleau.” | 

“Well, and what does that Prove except that I occupied myself abou: 
you more than you deserve ?” . 

“Hum !”——“ Go back, then, to the ‘ Beau Paon.’” | 

“ That is now quite out of the question.” = 3 

“ Have you not a room there ?’___“] had, but have it no longer.’ _ 

Who has taken it from you, then ?” =| 

“TI will tell you. Some little time ago I was returning there, after I had 
been running about after you ; and, having reached my hotel quite out of 


breath, I perceived a litter, upon which four peasants were carrying a sick 
monk.” | 


‘A monk ?” 


“Yes, an old grey-bearded Franciscan. As I was looking at the monk, 
they entered the hotel ; and as they were carrying him up the Staircase, I 


followed ; and as I reached the top of the staircase, I observed that they’ 
took him into my room.” | 


“Into your room ?” 


“Yes, into my own apartment, Supposing it to be a mistake, I sum- 
moned the landlord, who says that the room which had been let to me for 
the past eight days, was let to the Franciscan for the ninth.” | 

On, oh!” | 

“ That was exactly what I said ; nay, I did even more, for I was inclined | 
to get out of temper. I went upstairs again; I spoke to the Franciscan ‘ 
himself, and wished to prove to him the impropriety of the step, when this ’ 
monk, dying though he seemed to be, raised himself upon his arm, fixed | 
a pair of blazing eyes upon me, and, in a voice which was admirably suited - 


a 


See 


ele 


a oe 


a 


MALICORNE TURNED OUT OF THE HOTEL. 579 


commanding a chatge of cavalry, said, ‘Turn this fellow out of doors ! 
ch was done immediately by the landlord and the four porters, who 
je me descend the staircase somewhat faster than was agreeable, This 
.ow it happens, dearest, that I have no lodging.” 

“Who can this Franciscan be ?” said Montalais. “Is hea general ?” 
‘That is exactly the very title that one of the bearers of the litter gave 
1 as he spoke to him in a low tone.” 

‘So that » said Montalais. 

So that I have no room, no hotel, no lodging ; and that I am as deter- 
aed as my friend Manicamp was just now, not to pass the night in the 
an air.” 

‘What is to be done, then ?” said Montalais. 

“Nothing easier,” said a third voice, whereupon Montalais and Mali- 
‘ne uttered a simultaneous cry, and Saint-Aignan appeared. “ Dear 
ynsieur Malicorne,” said Saint-Aignan, “a very lucky accident has 
pught me back to extricate you from your embarrassment. Come, I 
2 offer you a room in my own apartments, which, I can assure you, no 
anciscan will deprive you of. As for you, my dear young lady, be easy. 
ilready knew Mademoiselle de la Valliére’s secret, and that of Made- 
yiselle de Tonnay-Charente ; your own you have just been kind enough 
confide to me, for which I thank you. I can keep three quite as wellas 
e only.” Malicorne and Montalais looked at each other, like two chile 
en detected in a theft ; but as Malicorne saw a great advantage in the 
oposition which had been made to him, he gave Montalais a sign of 
signation, which she returned. Malicorne then descended the ladder, 
und by round, reflecting at every step upon the means of obtaining 
ecemeal from M. de Saint-Aignan all he might possibly know about the 
mous secret. Montalais had already darted away as fleet as a deer, and 
sither cross-road nor labyrinth was able to deceive her. As for Saint- 
ignan, he carried off Malicorne with him to his apartments, showing him 
thousand attentions, enchanted to have close at hand the very two men 
ho, supposing that De Guiche were to remain silent, could give him the 
ast information about the maids of honour. 


| CHAPTER CXXVI. 
‘HAT ACTUALLY DID OCCUR AT THE INN CALLED THE “BEAU PAON,.” 


N the first place, let us supply our readers with a few details about the 
in called the “Beau Paon.”. It owed its name to its sign, which repre- 
anted a peacock spreading outits tail. But, in imitation of some painters 
tho had bestowed the face of a handsome young man upon the serpent 
thich tempted Eve, the painter of this sign had conferred upon the pea- 
ock the features of a woman. This inn, a living epigram against that 
alf of the human race which renders existence delightful, was situated at 
*ontainebleau, in the first turning on the left hand side, which divides on 
he road from Paris, that large artery which constitutes in itself alone the 
ntire town of Fontainebleau. The side-street in question was then 
nown as the Rue de Lyon, doubtless because, geographically, it advanced 
n the direction of the second capital of the kingdom. The street itself 
vas composed of two houses occupied by persons of the class of trades- 
yeople, the houses being separated by two large gardens bordered with 
edges running round them. Apparently, however, there seemed to be 


hree houses in the street. Let us explain, notwithstanding appearances, 
37—2 


589 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE 


how there were only two. The inn of the “ Beau Paon” had its princip 
front towards the main street ; but upon the Rue de Lyon there were tw 
ranges of buildings divided by courtyards, which comprised sets of apal 
ments for the reception of all classes of travellers, whether on foot or ¢ 
horseback, or even with their own carriages ; and in which could be su 
plied, not only board and lodging, but also accommodation for exercise, { 
opportunities of solitude for even the wealthiest courtiers, whenever, aft 
having received some check at the court, they wished to shut themselve 
up with their own society, either to devour an affront, or to brood ove 
their revenge. From the windows of this part of the building the travellea 
could perceive, in the first place, the street with the grass growing betwee 
the stones, which were being gradually loosened by it ; next, the beautift 
hedges of elder and thorn, which embraced, as though within two greg 
and flowering arms, the houses of which we have spoken ; and then, in thi 
spaces between those houses, forming the groundwork of the picture, at 
appearing like an almost impassable barrier, a line of thick trees, the a 
vanced sentinels of the vast forest which extends itself in front of Fontaine 
bleau. It was therefore easy, provided one secured an apartment at t 
angle of the building, to obtain, by the main street from Paris, a view 
as well as to hear, the passers-by and the /éves ; and, by the Rue de Lyoi 
to look upon and to enjoy the calm of the country. And this witho 
reckoning that, in cases of urgent necessity, at the very moment peop. 
might be knocking at the principal door in the Rue de Paris, one coul 
make one’s escape by the little door in the Rue de Lyon, and, creepi 
along the gardens of the private houses, attain the outskirts of the fores 
Malicorne, who, it will be remembered, was the first to speak about thi 
inn, by way of deploring his being turned out of it, having been absorbe 
in his own affairs, had not told Montalais all that could be said about thi 
curious inn ; and we will try to repair Malicorne’s grievous omission. Wi th 
the exception of the few words he had said about the Franciscan friar, h 
had not given any particulars about the travellers who were staying in th 
inn. The manner in which they had arrived, the manner in which the 
-lived, the difficulty which existed for every one but certain privilege 
travellers, in entering the hotel without a pass-word, and to live there with 
out certain preparatory precautions, must have struck Malicorne ; and, t 


will venture to say, really did so. But Malicorne, as we have already said, 
had some personal matters of his own to occupy his attention, which pre- 
vented him from paying much attention to others, In fact, all the apat 
ments of the hotel were engaged and _ retained by certain strangers, wh 
never stirred out, who were incommunicative in their address, with coun 
tenances full of thoughtful occupation, and not one of whom was known t 
Malicorne. Every one of these travellers had arrived at the hotel after 
his own arrival there ; each man had entered after having given a kind’ 
of pass-word, which had at first attracted Malicorne’s attention ; but hay- 
ing inquired, in an indirect manner, about it, he had been informed that. 
the host had given as a reason for this extreme vigilance, that, as the town 
was so full of wealthy noblemen, it must also be as full of clever and 
zealous pickpockets. The reputation of an honest inn like that of the 
“ Beau Paon” was concerned in not allowing its visitors to be robbed. It 
occasionally happened that Malicorne asked himself, as he thought matters. 
carefully over in his mind, and reflected upa his own position in the inn, 
how it was that they had allowed him to become an inmate of the hotel, 
whilst he had observed, since his residence there, admission refused to so 
many. He asked himself, too, how it was that Manicamp, who, in his 


¥ 
i 


(WHAT OCCURRED AT THE INN. 381 


nion, must be a man to be looked upon with veneration by everybody, 
ring wished to bait his horse at the “Beau Paon,” on arriving there, 
‘hh horse and rider had been incontinently led away with a mescio vos 
the most positive character. All this for Malicorne, whose mind being 
y occupied by his own love affair and his personal ambition, was a 
yblem ne had not applied himself to solve. Had he wished to do so, we 
mid hardly venture, notwithstanding the intelligence we have accorded 
his due, to say he would have succeeded. A few words will prove to 
. reader that nothing tess than CEdipus in person could have solved the 
gma in question. During the week, seven travellers had taken up their 
5de in the inn, all of them having arrived there the day after the fortu- 
te day on which Malicorne had fixed his choice on the “ Beau Paon.” 
ese seven persons, accompanied by a suitable retinue, were the follow- 
+ :—First of all, a brigadier in the German army, his secretary, phy- 
Jan, three servants, and seven horses. The brigadier’s name was the 
smte de Wostpur.—A Spanish cardinal, with two nephews, two secre- 
les, an officer of his household, and twelve horses. The cardinal’s 
me was Monseigneur Herrabia.—A rich merchant of Bremen, with his 
an-servant and two horses. This merchant’s name was Meinheer Bon- 
stt.—A Venetian senator, with his wife and daughter, both extremely 
autiful. The senator’s name was Signor Marinii—A Scotch laird, with 
ven Highlanders of his clan, all on foot. The laird’s name was Mac 
amnor.—An Austrian from Vienna, without title or coat-of-arms, who 
id arrived in a carriage ; a good deal of the priest, and something of the 
Idier. He was called the Councillor.—And, finally, a Flemish lady, with 
man servant, a lady’s-maid, and a female companion, a large retinue of 
rvants, great display, and immense horses. She was called the Flemish 


y- 

All these travellers had arrived on the same day, and yet their arrival 
ad occasioned no confusion in the inn, no stoppage in the street ; their 
dartments had been fixed upon beforehand, by their couriers or their 
secretaries, who had arrived the previous evening or the same morning. 
[alicorne, who had arrived the previous day, and riding an ill-conditioned 
orse, with a slender valise, had announced himself at the hotel of the 
‘Beau Paon ” as the friend of a nobleman desirous of witnessing the /é¢es, 
nd who would himself arrive almost immediately. The landlord, on 
earing these words, had smiled as if he were perfectly well acquainted 
ither with Malicorne or his friend. the nobleman, and had said to him, 
Since you are the first arrival, monsieur, choose what apartment you 
lease.” And this was said with that obsequiousness of manners, SO full 
f meaning with landlords, which means, “ Make yourself perfectly easy, 
nonsieur ; we know with whom we have to do, and you will be treated 
.ccordingly.” These words, and their accompanying gesture, Malicorne 
iad thought very friendly, but rather obscure. However, as he did not 
vish to be very extravagant in his expenses, and as he thought that if he 
vere to ask for a small apartment he would doubtless have been refused, 
yn account of his want of consequence, he hastened to close at once with 
che innkeeper’s remark, and deceive him with a cunning equal to his own. 
50, smiling as a man would do for whom whatever might be done was but 
simply his due, he said, “ My dear host, I shall take the best and the gayest 
room in the house.” 

“ With a stable ?” “Yes, with a stable.” 
“ And when will you take it ?}—“ Immediately, if it be possible.” 


582 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“But,” said Malicorne, “I shall leave the large room unoccupied for the: 
resent.” 

re Very good !” said the landlord, with an air of intelligence. 

“ Certain reasons, which you will understand by-and-by, oblige meto take, 
at my own cost, this small room only.” 

“Yes, yes,” said the host. 

“When my friend arrives, he will occupy the large apartment ; and, as 
a matter of course, as this large apartment will be his own affair, he wil 


settle for it himself.” 
“Certainly,” said the landlord, “ certainly ; let it be understood in th 


manner.” 
“It is agreed, then, that such shall be the terms ?” 


“Word for word.” 
“It is extraordinary,” said Malicorne to himself. “You quite under. 


stand, then ??>——“‘ Yes.” 
“There is nothing more to be said. Since, then, you understand—for 
you do clearly understand, do you not ?’-—-“ Perfectly.” 


“Very well : and now show me to my room.” ; 

The landlord, capin hand, preceded Malicorne, who installed himself 
in his room, and became more and more surprised to observe that the 
landlord, at every ascent or descent, looked and winked at him in a 
manner which indicated the best possible intelligence between them. 
“There is some mistake here,” said Malicorne to himself; “ but until it is 
cleared up, I shall take the advantage of it, which is the best thing I can 
possibly do.” And he darted out of his room like a hunting-dog following 
up a scent, in search of all the news and curiosities of the court, getting 
himself burnt in one place, and drowned in another, as he had told Ma: 
demoiselle de Montalais. The day after he had been installed in his 
room, he had noticed the seven travellers arrive successively, who speedily 
filled the whole hotel. When he saw that all this number of people, of 
carriages, and retinue, Malicorne rubbed his hands delightedly, thinking 
that, one day later, he should not have found a bed to lie upon after his 
return from his exploring expeditions. When all the travellers were 
lodged, the landlord entered Malicorne’s room, and with his accustomed 
courteousness, said to him, “You are aware, my dear monsieur, that the 
large room in the third detached building is still reserved for you ?” 

“ Of course I am aware of it.” 

“T am really making you a present of it.’——“ Thank you.” 

‘So that when your friend comes——”—_“ Well !” 

“Fe will be satisfied with me, I hope ; or, if he be not, he will be very 
difficult to please.” 

“Excuse me, but will you allow me to say a few words about my 
friend ?” 

“Of course, for you have a perfect right to do so.” 

“ He intended to come, as you know.” —“ And he does so still.” 

“He may possibly have changed his opinion.” —-—“ No.” 

“You are quite sure, then ?” “ Quite sure.” 

“ But in case you should have some doubt.”—-—“ Well !” i 

“I can only say that I do not positively assure you that he will come.” 

“Yet he told you——” 

“He certainly did tell me ; but you know that man proposes and God 
disposes,—verba volant, scripta manent.” 

“Which is as much as to say——” . 

“That what is spoken flies away, and what is written remains ; and, as 


WHAT OCCURRED AT THE INN. 583 


2 did not write to me, but contented himself by saying to me, ‘I will 
ithorise you, yet without specially inviting you, you must feel that it 
aces me in a very embarrassing position.” 

“What do you authorise me to do, then ?” 

“Why, to let your roomsif you find a good tenant for them.” 

#6 | p»p___- Yes, you.” 

“Never will 1 do such a thing, monsieur. Ifhe has not written to you, 
2 has written to me.” 

“Ah! ah! what does hesay? Let us see if his letter agrees with his 
ords.” 

“These are almost his very words. ‘To the landlord of the “Beau 
aon” Hotel,—You will have been informed of the meeting arranged to 
ike place in your inn between some people of importance ; I shall be one 
£ those who will meet the others at Fontainebleau. Keep for me, then, 
“small room for a’ friend who will arrive either before or after me—~ 
nd you are the friend I suppose,” said the landlord, interrupting his 
sading of the letter. Malicorne bowed modestly. The landlord con- 
nued :—‘‘ And a large apartment for myself. The large apartment is 
ay own affair, but I wish the price of the smaller room to be moderate, 
§ it is destined for a fellow who isdeucedly poor.’ It is still you he is 
peaking of, is he not ?” said the host. 

_* Oh, certainly,” said Malicorne. 

_ Then we are agreed ; your friend will settle for his apartment, and you 
or your own.” © 

“May I be broken alive upon the wheel,” said Malicorne to himself, 
4f 1 understand anything at all about it,’ and then he said aloud, “ Well, 
hen, are you satisfied with the name ?”——* With what name ?” 

“With the name at the end of the letter. Does it give you the guarantee 
‘ou require ?’——“I was going to ask you his name.” 

- “ What ! was not the letter signed?” 

“No,” said the landlord, opening his eyes very wide, full of mystery and 
suriosity. 

“In that case,” replied Malicorne, imitating his gesture and his mys- 
erious look, “if he has not given you his name, you understand, he must 
iave his reasons for it.” “ Oh, of course.” 

“ And therefore, that I, his friend, bis confidant, must not betray him.” 

“ You are perfectly right, monsieur,” said the landlord, “and therefore 
{ do not insist upon it.” 

“T appreciate your delicacy. As for myself, as my friend told you, my 
-oom is a separate affair, so let us come to terms about it. Short accounts 
nake good friends. How much is it?” 

“ There is no hurry.” 

“ Never mind, let us reckon it up all the same. Room, my own board, 
a place in the stable for my horse, and his feed. How much per day ?” 

“Four livres, monsieur.” 

“ Which will make twelve livres for the three days I have been here?” 

‘Ves, monsieur.” 

“ Here are your twelve livres, then.” 

“But why settle now ?” 

“ Because,” said Malicorne, lowering his voice, and resorting to his for- 
mer air of mystery, because he saw that the mysterious had succeeded, 
“because if I had to set off suddenly, to decamp at any moment, my 
account would be already settled,” 

_ “You are right, monsieur.” 
/ 


584 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNES. e 


“I may consider myself at home, then ?”——“ Perfectly.” a 

““So far so well. Adieu!” And the landlord withdrew. Malicorne 
left alone, reasoned with himself in the following manner :—“ No one bu 
De Guiche or Manicamp could have written to this fellow; De Guiche 
because he wishes to secure a lodging for himself beyond the precincts 0 
the court, in the event of his success or failure, as the case might be 
Manicamp, because De Guiche must have entrusted him with his com 
mission. And De Guiche or Manicamp will have argued in this manner 
The large apartment in which one could receive, in a befitting manner, 
lady very thickly veiled, reserving to the lady in question a double mean 
of exit, either in a street somewhat deserted, or closely adjoining the forest 
The smaller room, either to shelter Manicamp for a time, who is Di 
Guiche’s confidant, and would be the vigilant keeper of the door, or for De 
Guiche himself, acting, for greater safety, the part of master and of com 
dant at the same time. Yet,” he continued, “how about this meeting which 
is to take place, and which indeed has actually taken place, in this hotel: 
No doubt they are persons who are going to be presented to the king 
And the ‘poor devil,’ for whom the smaller room is destined, is a trick, in 
order the better to conceal De Guiche or Manicamp. If this be the case, 
as very likely it is, there is only half the mischief done, for there is simply 
the length of one’s purse-strings between Manicamp and Malicorne,’ 
After he had thus reasoned the matter out, Malicorne had slept soundly, 
leaving the seven travellers to occupy, and in every sense of the word to 
walk up and down, their several lodgings in the hotel. Whenever there 
was nothing at court to put him out, when he had wearied himself with 
his excursions and investigations, tired of writing letters which he could 
never find an opportunity of delivering to whom they were intended, he 
then returned home to his comfortable little room, and leaning upon the 
balcony, which was filled with nasturtiums and white pinks, he began to 
think over these strange travellers, for whom Fontainebleau seemed to 
possess no attractions in its illuminations, or amusements, or féles. Things 
went on in this manner until the seventh day, a day of which we hag 
given such full details, with its night also, in the preceding chapters. On 


that night Malicorne was enjoying the fresh air, seated at hi window, to- 
wards one o’clock in the morning, when Manicamp appeared on horseback, 
with a thoughtful and listless air, a 

“ Good !” said Malicorne to himself, recognising him at the first glance; 
“there’s my friend, who is come to take possession of his apartment, 
that is to say, of my room.” And he called to Manicamp, who looked up 
and immediately recognised Malicorne. 

“Ah ! by Jove!” said the former, his countenance clearing up, “glad to 
see you, Malicorne. I have been wandering about F ontainebleau, look- 
for three things I cannot find: De Guiche, a room, and a stable.” 

“Of M. de Guiche I cannot give you either good or bad news, for I 
have not seen him ; but as far as concerns your room and a stable, that’s 
another matter, for they have been retained here for you.” 

“ Retained—and by whom ?”——“ By yourself, I suppose.” 

“By me ?” 

“Do you mean to say you have not taken lodgings here ?” 

“ By no means,” said Manicamp. 

At this moment the landlord appeared on the threshold of the door, 

“T require a room.” said Manicamp. 

“ Have you engaged one, monsieur ??—-—“ N 0,” 

“Then I have no rooms to Re 


E's 


WHAT OCCURRED AT THE INN. §35 


“Tn that case I have engaged a room,” said Manicamp. 
“A room simply, or lodgings ?”-—“ Anything you please.” 

“ By letter?” inquired the landlord. Malicorne nodded affirmatively to 
Manicamp. 

“Of course by letter,” said Manicamp. “ Did you not receive a letter 
rom me ?” 

_ “What was the date of the letter 7” inquired the host, in whom Mani- 
‘amp’s hesitation had aroused suspicion. Manicamp rubbed his ear, and 
ooked up at Malicorne’s window ; but Malicorne had left his window and 
vas coming down the stairs to his friend’s assistance. At the very same 
noment, a traveller, wrapped up in a large Spanish cloak, appeared at 
he porch, near enough to hear the conversation. 

_ “Task you what was the date of the letter you wrote to me to retain 
cus here ?” repeated the landlord, again pressing his question. 
“Last Wednesday, was the date,” said the mysterious stranger, ina soft 
gid polished tone of voice, touching the landlord on the shoulder. 

Manicamp drew back, and it was now Malicorne’s turn, who appeared 
m the threshold, to scratch his ear. The landlord saluted the new arrival 
is a man who recognises his true guest. ‘‘ Monsieur,”he said to him, with 
‘ivility, ‘“‘ your apartment is ready for you, and the stables too, only——” 
de looked round him, and inquired, “ Your horses ?” 

_ “My horses may or may not arrive. That, however, matters but little 
0 you, provided you are paid for what has been engaged. ” The landlord 
sowed still lower. 

' “You have,” continued the unknown traveller, “kept for me, besides, 
he small room I asked for.” 

' “Qh !” said Malicorne, endeavouring to hide himself. 

- “Your friend has occupied it during the last week,” said the landlord, 
0inting to Malicorne, who was trying to make himself as small as possible. 
The traveller, drawing his cloak round him so as to cover the lower’ part 
f his face, cast a rapid glance at Malicorne, and said, “ This gentleman 
s no friend of mine.” 

_ The landlord almost started off his feet. 

“J am not acquainted with this gentleman,” continued the traveller. 

_ “What !” exclaimed the host, turning to Malicorne, “are you not this 
rentleman’s friend, then ?” 

“What does it matter whether I am or not, provided you are paid ?” 
aid Malicorne, parodying the stranger’s remark in a very majestic 
manner. 

“Tt matters so far as this,” said the landlord, who began to perceive that 
me person had been taken for another, “that I beg you, monsieur, to 
eave the rooms, which had been engaged beforehand, and by some one 
‘Ise instead of you.” 

Still,” said Malicorne, “this gentleman cannot require at the same 
ime a room on the first floor and an apartment on the second. If this 
renileman will take the room, I will take the apartment ; if he prefers the 
:partment, I will be satisfied with the room.’ 

“Tam exceedingly distressed, monsieur,” said the traveller, in his soft 
roice, “ but I need both the room and the ‘apartment. y 

“At least, tell me for whom ?” inquired Malicorne. 

“ The apartment I require for myself.” 

“Very well ; but the room ?” 

*¢ Look,” said the traveller, pointing towards a sort of procession which 
was approaching. 


586 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


Malicorne looked in the direction indicated, and observed, borne upon 
a litter, the arrival of the Franciscan, whose installation in his apartment 
he had, with a few details of his own, related to Montalais, and whom he 
had so uselessly endeavoured to convert to humbler views. The result of 
the arrival of the stranger, and of the sick Franciscan, was Malicorne’s 
expulsion, without any consideration for his feelings, from the inn, by the 
landlord and the peasants who had carried the Franciscan. ‘The details 
have already been given of what followed this expulsion ; of Manicamp’s 
conversation with Montalais; how Manicamp, with greater cleverness 
than Malicorne had shown, had succeeded in obtaining news of De 
Guiche ; of the subsequent conversation of Montalais with Malicorne 
and, finally, of the billets with which the Comte de Saint-Aignan had furs 
nished Manicamp and Malicorne. It remains for us to inform our readers 
who were the traveller with the cloak—the principal tenant of the double 
apartment of which Malicorne had only occupied a portion,—and the 
Franciscan, quite as mysterious a personage, whose arrival, together with 
that of the stranger with the cloak, had been unfortunate enough to upset. 


the two friends’ plans, 


CHAPTER CXAVIiL 
A JESUIT OF THE ELEVENTH YEAR. 


IN the first place, in order not to weary the reader’s patience, we will 
hasten to answer the first question. The traveller with the cloak held 
over his face was Aramis, who, after he had left Fouquet, and had taken 
from a portmanteau, which his servant had opened, a cavalier’s complete 
costume, had quitted the chateau, and had gone to the hotel of the “ Beau” 
Paon,” where by letters, seven or eight days previously, he had, as thé 
landlord had stated, directed a room and an apartment to be retained for 
him. Immediately Malicorne and Manicamp had been turned out, Aramis’ 
approached the Franciscan, and asked him whether he would prefer the 
apartment or the room. The Franciscan inquired where they were both 
situated. He was told that the room was on the first, and the apartment 
on the second floor. 

“The room, then,” he said. ‘ 

Aramis did not contradict him, but, with great submissiveness, said to 
the landlord, “ The room ;’? and, bowing with respect, he withdrew into 
the apartment, and the Franciscan was accordingly carried at once into” 
the room. Now, is it not extraordinary that this respect should be shown 
by a prelate of the church for a simple monk—for one, too, belonging to 
a mendicant order—to whom was given up, without a request for it even, 
a room which so many travellers were desirous of obtaining? How, too, 
explain the unexpected arrival of Aramis at the hotel—he who had entered 
the chateau with M. Fouquet, and could have remained at the chateau 
with M. Fouquet if he had liked ? The Franciscan supported his removal 
up the staircase without uttering a complaint, although it was evident he 
suffered very much, and that every time the litter was knocked against 
the wall, or against the railing of the staircase, he experienced a terrible 
shock throughout his frame; and finally, when he had arrived in the room, 
he said to those who carried him, “ Help me to place myself on that arm-- 
chair.” The bearers of the litter placed it on the ground, and, lifting the 
sick man up as gently as possible, they carried him to the chair he had 
indicated, and which was situated at the head of the bed, “ Now,” he 


(A YESUIT OF THE ELEVENTH VEAR. 889 


\ded, with a marked benignity of gesture and tone, “desire the landlord 
come. 

They obeyed, and five minutes afterwards the landlord appeared at the 
or. 

“ Be kind enough,” said the Franciscan to him, “ to send these excellent 
lows away ; they are vassals of the Comte de Melun. They found me 
yen | had fainted on the road overcome by the heat, and, without think- 
g whether they would be paid for their trouble, they wished to carry 
é to their own homes. But I know at what cost to themselves is the 
ispitality which the poor extend to a sick man, and | preferred this 
tel, where, moreover, I was expected.” 

The landlord looked at the Franciscan in amazement, but the latter, 
th his thumb, made the sign of the Cross in a peculiar manner upon his 
east. The host replied by making a similar sign on his left shoulder. 
Yes, indeed,” he said, “we did expect you, but we hoped that you would 
rive in a better state of health.” And as the peasants were looking at 
e innkeeper, usually so supercilious, and saw how respectful he had be- 
me in the presence of a poor monk, the Franciscan drew from a deep 
cket three or four pieces of gold, which he held out. 

“ My friends,” said he, “here is something to repay you for the care you 
ive taken of me. So make yourselves perfectly easy, and do not be 
raid of leaving me here. The order to which I belong, and for which I 
a travelling, does not require me to beg; only, as the attention you 
ive shown me deserves to be rewarded, take these two louis and depart 
peace.” 

The peasants did not dare to take them. The landlord took the two 
ais of the monk’s hand, and placed them in that of one of the peasants, 
e whole four of whom withdrew, opening their eyes wider than ever. 
ae door was then closed, and, while the innkeeper stood respectfully near 
the Franciscan collected himself for a moment. He then passed across 
3 sallow face a hand which seemed dried up by fever, and rubbed his 
tvous and agitated fingers across his beard. His large eyes, hollowed 
*sickness and inquietude, seemed to pursue, in the vague distance, a 
ournful and fixed idea, 

“ What physicians have you at Fontainebleau ” he inquired, after a long 
use, 

“We have three, my father.” 

“What are their names ?” 
“The next one ?” 

“A brother of the Carmelite order, named Brother Hubert.” 

i“ The next ?” “‘A secular member, named Grisart.” 

“Ah! Grisart ?? murmured the monk. “Send for M. Grisart immedi- 
ply.” 

‘The landlord moved in prompt obedience to the direction. 

“Tell me, what priests are there here ?”>———-“ What priests ?” 

“Ves ; belonging to what orders ?” 

“ There are Jesuits, Augustines, and Cordeliers ; but the Jesuits are the 
ysest at hand. Shall I send for a confessor belonging to the order of 
suits ?,——_“ Yes, immediately.” 

It will be imagined that, at the sign of the cross which they had ex- 
anged, the landlord and the invalid-monk had recognised each other as 
o affiliated members of the well-known society of Jesus. Left to him- 
if, the Franciscan drew from his pocket a bundle of papers, some of 
lich he read over with the most careful attention. The violence of his 


: 


“ Luiniguet first.” 


588 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


disorder, ree overcame his courage ; his eyes rolled in their sockets, 
a cold sweat poured down his face, and he nearly fainted, and lay with his 
head thrown backwards and his arms hanging down on both sides of his 
chair. For more than five minutes he remained without any movement, 
when the landlord returned, bringing with him the physician, whom ¢ 
had hardly allowed time to dress himself. The noise they made in enter 
ing the room, the current of air which the opening of the door had occé 
sioned, restored the Franciscan to his senses. He hurriedly seized hold 
the papers which were lying about, and with his long and bony hand con} 
cealed them under the cushions of the chair. The landlord went out o 
the room, leaving patient and physician together. 

“Come here, Monsieur Grisart,” said the Franciscan to the doctor 

‘approach closer, for there is no time to lose. Try, by touch and sound, 
and consider and. pronounce your sentence.” 4 

“ The landlord,” replied the doctor, “told me that I had the honour of 
attending an affiliated brother.” | 

“Yes,” replied the Franciscan, “it is so. Tell me the truth, then am 
feel very ill, and think I am about to die.” | | 

The physician took the monk’s hand and felt his pulse. “ Oh, oh,” he 
said, “a dangerous fever.” | 

ee What do: you call a dangerous fever ?” inquired the Franciscan, with 
an imperious look. 

“To an affiliated member of the first or second year,” replied the 
physician, looking inquiringly at the monk, “I should say—a fever that 
may be cured.” . 

“ But to me?” said the Franciscan. The physician hesitated. | 

“Look at my grey hair, and my forehead, full of anxious thought,” he 
continued, “look at the lines in my face, by ‘which I reckon up the trials 
I have undergone ; Tama Jesuit of the ‘eleventh year, Monsieur Grisart.” 
The physician started, for, in fact, a Jesuit of the eleventh year was one of 
those men who had been initiated in’ all the secrets of the order, one of 
those for whom the science has no more secrets, the society no further 
barriers to present—temporal obedience, no more trammels. | 

“Tn that case,” said Grisart, saluting him with respect, “Iam in the 
presence of a master ?” “Ves spact, ” therefore, accordingly.” 

‘And you wish to know?” “My ‘real state.” : 

“ Well!” said the physician, * ‘it is a brain fever, which has reached its 
highest degree of intensity.” 

“There is no hope, then ?” inquired the Franciscan, in a quick tone ‘of 
voice. | 
“I do not say that,” replied the doctor; “yet, considering the dis- 
ordered state of the brain, the hurried respiration, the rapidity of the 
pulse, and the burning nature of the fever which is devouring yOu | 

And which has thrice prostrated me, since this morning,” said the monk, 

“ Therefore, I should call it a terrible attack. But why did you not stop 
on your road ?? | 

“I was expected here, and I was obliged to come.” 


* Even.at, the risk of, your life r” 
“Yes, at the risk of dying !” 
“Very well! considering all the symptoms of your case, I must tell 
you that your condition is desperate. ” The Franciscan smiled ina strangé 
manner. 
“What you have just told me is, perhaps, sufficient for what is due tc 
an affiliated member, even of the eleventh year ; but for what is due tc 


A JESUIT OF THE ELEVENTH YEAR. 589 


ie, Monsieur Grisart, it is too little, and I have a right to demand more, 
ome, then, let us be more candid still, and as frank as if you were 
taking your own confession to Heaven. Besides, I have already sent for 
confessor.” 

“Oh! I hope, however,” murmured the doctor. 

| “ Answer me,” said the sick man, displaying witha dignified gesture a 
olden ring, the stone of which had, until that moment, been turned inside, 
+ which bore engraved thereon the distinguishing mark of the Society 
f Jesus. 

'Grisart uttered a loud exclamation. “The general !” he cried. 

* Silence,” said the Franciscan, “ you now understand that the truth is 
verything.” 

“ Monseigneur, monseigneur,” murmured Grisart, “send for the con- 
:ssor, for in two hours, at the next seizure, you will be attacked by de- 
rium, and will pass away in the course of it.” 

“ Very well,” said the patient, for a moment contracting his eyebrows ; 
I have still two hours to live then ?” 

“Ves ; particularly if you take the potion I shall send you presently.” 
© And that will give me two hours more !”’———“ Two hours.” 

* T would take it, were it poison, for those two hours are necessary not 
nly for myself, but for the glory of the order.” 

“What a loss, what a catastrophe for us all!” murmured the physician. 
“Tt is the loss of one man, and nothing more,” replied the Franciscan, 
‘and Heaven will enable the poor monk, who is about to leave you, to find 
worthy successor. Adieu, Monsieur Grisart ; already even, through the 
oodness of Heaven, I have met with you. A physician who had not been 
ne of our holy order, would have left me in ignorance of my condition ; 
nd, relying that my existence might have been prolonged a few days 
uther, I should not have taken the necessary precautions. You are a 
sarned man, Monsieur Grisart, and that confers an honour upon us all; 

would have been repugnant to my feelings to have found one of our order 
f little standing in his profession. Adieu, Monsieur Grisart ; send me the 
ordial immediately.” 

“Give me your blessing, at least, monseigneur.” 

“In my mind, Ido; go, go ;—in my mind, I do so, I tell you—anzmo, 
Taitre Grisart, vivzbus zmpossibile.”” And he again fell back on the arm- 
hair, in an almost senseless state. M. Grisart hesitated, whether he 
nould give him immediate assistance, or should run to prepare the cordial 
e had promised. He, doubtless, decided in favour of the cordial, for he 
arted out of the room and disappeared down the staircase. 


CHAPTER CXXVIII. 
THE STATE SECRET, 


. FEW moments after the doctor’s departure, the confessor arrived. He 
ad hardly crossed the threshold of the door when the Franciscan fixed a 
enetrating look upon him, and, shaking his head, murmured—“ A weak 
ind, I see ; may Heaven forgive me for dying without the help of this 
ving piece of human infirmity.” The confessor, on his side, regarded 
ne dying man with astonishment, almost with terror. He had never be- 
ield eyes so burningly bright at the very moment they were about to close, 
ior looks so terrible at the moment they were about to be quenched in 
leath, The Franciscan made a rapid and imperious movement of his 


590 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGEL ONNE. 


hand. “Sit down there, my father,” he said, “and listen to me.” The 
Jesuit confessor, a good priest, a recent member of the order, who ha¢ 
merely witnessed the initiation into its mysteries, yielded to the superiority 
assumed by the penitent. | 
“There are several persons staying in this hotel,” continued the Fran 
ciscan. b | 

“But,” inquired the Jesuit, “I thought I had been summoned to receiv] 
confession. Is your remark, then, a confession ?” | 

“Why do you ask me?” . 

“Tn order to know whether I am to keep your words secret.” “i 

“ My remarks are part of my confession ; I confide them to you in youl 
character of a confessor.” | 

“Very well,” said the priest, seating himself on the chair which the Fran 
ciscan had, with great difficulty, just left, to le down on the bed. 

The Franciscan continued.—‘ I repeat, there are several persons stay 
ing in this inn.”--~-“ So I have heard.” | 

“They ought to be eight in number.” 

The Jesuit made a sign that he understood him. “ The first to whonr 
I wish to speak,” said the dying man, “is a German from Vienna, whos¢ 
name is the Baron de Wostpur. Be kind enough to go to him, and tel 
him that the person he expected has arrived.” The confessor, astounded: 
looked at his penitent ; the confession seemed a singular one. 

“ Obey,” said the Franciscan, in a tone of command impossible to resist, 
The good Jesuit, completely subdued, rose and left the room. As soon as he! 
had gone, the Franciscan again took up the papers whicha crisis of the fever 
had already, once before, obliged him to put aside. 

“The Baron de Wostpur? Good!” he said ; “ ambitious, a fool, anc 
straitened in his means.” 

He folded up the papers, which he thrust underhis pillow. Rapid footstep: 
were heard at the end of the corridor. The confessor returned, followed by 
the Baron de Wostpur, who walked along with his head raised, as if he were 
discussing with himself the propriety of touching the ceiling with the feathei 
in his hat. Therefore, atthe appearance of the Franciscan, at his melanchol} 
look, and at the plainness of the room, he stopped and inquired, ‘‘ Who sum! 
moned me ?” 

“],” said the Franciscan, who turned towards the confessor, saying 
‘“ My good father, leave us for a moment together ; when this gentlemar 
leaves, you will return here.” The Jesuit left the room, and, doubtless, availec 
himself of this momentary exile from the presence of the dying man to ask 
the host forsome explanation about this strange penitent, who treated his 
confessor no better than he woulda man-servant. The baron approachec 
the bed, and wished to speak, but the hand of the Franciscan imposec) 
silence upon him. a 

“Every moment is precious,” said the latter, hurriedly. “You have 
come here for the competition, have you not ?” “Yes, my father.” 

You hope to be elected general of the order ?/——“ I hope so.” 

“You know on what conditions only you can possibly attain this high 
povuon, which makes one man the master of monarchs, the equal 0: 

opes : | 

“Who are you,” inquired the baron, “to subject me to these ‘nterroga: 


tories ?»———“T am he whom you expected.” 
a The elector-general ?”—-—“ I am the elected.” 
You are——’ 


The Franciscan did not give him time to reply: he extended hi: 


THE STATE SECRET, Sor 


arunken hand, on which glittered the ring of the general of the order. 
he baron drew back in surprise ; and then, immediately afterwards, bow- 
1g with the profoundest respect, he exclaimed, “‘Is it possible that you 
re here, monseigneur ; you, in this wretched room ; you, upon this miser- 
ole bed ; you, in search of and selecting the future general, that is, your 
wn successor !” 

.“ Do not distress yourself about that, monsieur, but fulfil immediately 
1e principal condition, of furnishing the order with a secret of import- 
nce, such as one of the greatest courts of Europe can, by your instru- 
ientality, for ever confer upon the order. Well! do you possess the 
2cret which you promised, in your request, addressed to the grand 
ouncil ?” 

** Monseigneur 
“Let us proceed, however, in due order,” said the monk. “ Youare the 
}aron de Wostpur ?”—-—“ Yes, monseigneur.” 

- And this letter is from you ?” 

_ The general of the Jesuits drew a paper from his bundle, and presented it 
> the baron, who glanced at it, and made a sign in the affirmative, saying, 
Yes, monseigneur, this letter is mine.” 

-Can you show me the reply which the secretary of the grand council 
eturned to you.” 

“This is it,” said the baron, holding towards the Franciscan a letter, 
fearing simply the address, “To his excellency the Baron de Wostpur,” 
nd containing only this phrase, “From the 15th to the 22nd May, Fon- 
ainebleau, the hdtel of the ‘ Beau-Paon.’—A.M.D.G.”* 

“Right !” said the Franciscan, ‘and now speak.” 

JT have a body of troops, composed of 50,000 men ; all the officers are 
‘ained. I am encamped on the Danube. In four days I can overthrow the 
mperor, who is, as you are aware, opposed to the progress of our order, 
nd can replace him by whichever of the princes of his family the order 
aay determine upon.” The Franciscan listened unmoved. 

Ts that all?” he said. 
A revolution throughout Europe is included in my plan,” said the 
yaron. 

“Very well, Monsieur de Wostpur, you will receive a reply ; return to 
‘our room, and leave Fontainebleau within a quarter of an hour.” 

- The baron withdrew backwards, just as obsequiously as if he were taking 
eave of the emperor he was ready to betray. 

- “There is no secret there,” murmured the Franciscan, “it is a plot. 
Besides,” he added, after a moment's reflection, “the future of Europe is 
10 longer in the House of Austria.” 

- And with a pencil which he held in his hand he struck the Baron de 

Vostpur’s name from the list. 

- “Now for the cardinal,” he said ; “we ought to get something more 
erious from the side of Spain.” 

Raising his head, he perceived the confessor, who was awaiting his orders 
is submissively as a school-boy. 

“ Ah, ah !” he said, noticing his submissive air, “ you have been talking 
vith the landlord.” 

_ “Yes, monseigneur ; and to the physician, 

* To Grisart ?’——“ Yes.” 

“ He is here, then ?” 

* He is waiting with the potion he promised.” 
| %* Ad majorem Dei gloriam, 


” 


at 


= Ey ee . &— ~eewe’. oe 


592 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“Very well ; if I require him I will call ; you now understand the gre 
importance of my confession, do you not? 

“Ves, monseigneur.’ 7 

“ Then go and fetch me the Spanish Cardinal Herrebia. Make hast 
Only, as you now understand the matter in hand, you will remain nez 
me, for I begin to feel faint.” 

“ Shall I summon the physician ?” 

“ Not yet, not yet . . . the Spanish cardinal . . . no one else. Fly § 

Five minutes afterwards, the cardinal, pale and disturbed, entered 
little room. : 

“T am informed, monseigneur ” stammered out the cardinal. 

“To the point,” said the Franciscan, in a faint voice, showing the cardi 
nal a letter which he had written to the Grand Council “Is that yor 
handwriting ?” © 

“Yes, but - 

“ And your summons here 

The cardinal hesitated to answer. His purple revolted against th 
mean garb of the poor Franciscan, who stretched out his hand and dis 
played the ring, which produced its effect, greater m proportion as Hie 
greatness of the person increased over whom the Franciscan exercised his 
influence. 2 : 

“ Quick, the secret, the secret !” said the dying man, leaning upon Mis 
confessor. 

“ Coram isto ?? inquired the Spanish cardinal. 

“ Speak in Spanish,” said the Franciscan, showing the liveliest attentio: 

“You are aware, monseigneur,” said the cardinal, continuing the come. 
versation in the Castilian dialect, “that the condition of the marriage ¢ 
the Infanta with the king of France is the absolute renunciation of th 
rights of the said Infanta, as well as of King Louis XIV., to all claim 
the crown of Spain.” The Franciscan made a sign in the affirmative. 

“The consequence is,” continued the cardinal, “that the peace am 
alliance between the two kingdoms, depend upon the observance of that 
clause of the contract.” A-similar sign from the Franciscan. “ Not only, 
France and Spain,” continued the cardinal, “but the whole of Europe 
even, would be violently rent asunder by the faithlessness of either pa 
Another movement of the dying man’s head. A 

“Tt further results,” continued the speaker, “that the man who might 
able to foresee events, and to render certain that which is no more than 
vague idea floating in the mind of man ; that is to say, the idea of futur 
good or evil, would preserve the world from a great catastrophe ; and the 
event, which has no fixed certainty even in the brain of him who originateq@ 
it, could be turned to the advantage of our order.” § 

“ Pronto, pronto murmured the Franciscan, who suddenly becam 
paler, and leaned upon the priest. The cardinal approached the ear‘ 
the dying man, and said,—“ Well, monseigneur, I know that the king 
France has determined that, at the first pretext, a death for instance, eith 
that of the king of Spain or that ofa brother of the Infanta, France will,arm 
in hand, claim the inheritance, and I have in my possession already pres 
pared the plan of policy agreed upon by Louis XIV. for this occasion.” © 

“And this plan?” said the Franciscan. q 

“ Here it is,” returned the cardinal. 

= In whose handwriting is it?“ In my own.* 

‘s Have you anything further to say to me?” 

4 think I have said a good deal, my lord,” replied the cardinal. 


THE STATE SECRET. 593 


Ves, you have rendered the order a great service. But how did you 
Scure the details, by the aid of which you have constructed your plan ?” 
&] have the under servants of the king of France in my pay, and I 
tain from them all the waste papers, which have been saved from being 
rnt.” 

“Very ingenious,” murmured the Franciscan, endeavouring to smile ; 
you will leave this hotel, cardinal, in a quarter of an hour, and a reply 
all be sent you.” The cardinal withdrew. 

“Call Grisart, and desire the Venetian Marini to come,” said the sick 


an. 

While the confessor obeyed, the Franciscan, instead of striking out the 
‘rdinal’s name, as he had done the baron’s, made a cross at the side of 
Then, exhausted by the effort, he fell back on his bed, murmuring the 
une of Doctor Grisart. When he returned to his senses, he had drunk 
yout half of the potion, of which the remainder was left in the glass,and he 
und himself supported by the physician, while the Venetian and the con- 
ssor were standing close to the door. The Venetian submitted to the 
ime formalities as his two predecessors, hesitated as they had done at the 
ght of the two strangers, but his confidence restored by the order of the 
sneral, he revealed, that the pope, terrified at the power of the order, was 
eaving a plot for the general expulsion of the Jesuits, and was tampering 
ith the different courts of Europe, in order to obtain their assistance. He 
ascribed the pontiff’s auxiliaries, his means of action, and indicated the 
articular locality in the Archipelago, where, by a sudden surprise, two 
ardinals, adepts of the eleventh year, and, consequently, high in author- 
y, were to be transported, together with thirty-two of the principal affili- 
ted members of Rome. ‘The Franciscan thanked the Signor Marini. It 
‘as by no means a slight service he had rendered the society by denounc- 
ig this pontifical project. The Venetian thereupon received directions to 
at off in a quarter of an hour, and left as radiant as if he already possessed 
ie ring, the sign of the supreme authority of the society. As, however, he 
vas departing, the Franciscan murmured to himself :—‘“‘ All these men are 
ither spies, or a sort of police, not one of them a general; they have all 


‘iscovered a plot, but not oneof them a secret. It is not by means of ruin, 


r war, or force, that the Society of Jesus is to be governed, but by that 
No, the man is 


aysterious influence which a moral superiority confers. 
.ot yet found, and, to complete the misfortune, Heaven strikes me down, 
nd I am dying. Oh! must the society indeed fall with me for want of a 
‘olumn to support it? Must death, which is waiting for me, swallow up 
ik me the future of the order? That future which ten years more of my 
ywn life would have rendered eternal; for that future, with the reign of 
he new king, is opening radiant and full of splendour.” These words, 
vhich had been half-reflected, half-pronounced aloud, were listened to by 
he Jesuit confessor with a terror similar to that with which one listens to 
he wanderings of a person attacked by fever, whilst Grisart, witha mind 
of a higher order, devoured them as the revelations of an unknown world, 
n which his looks were plunged without ability to attain them. Suddenly 
he Franciscan recovered himself. 

“Tet us finish this,” he said, “death is approaching. Oh! just now 
[ was dying resignedly, for I hoped... while now I sink in despair, unless 
hhose who remain . . . Grisart, Grisart, make me live but an hour longer.” 

Grisart approached the dying monk, and made him swallow a few drops, 
aot of the potion which was. still left in the glass, but of the contents of a 


small bottle he had upon his person. 


38° 


594 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


“ Call the Scotchman !” exclaimed the Franciscan ; “ call the Bremeh 
merchant. Call, call, quickly. Iam dying. 1am suffocated.” j 

The confessor ‘darted forward to seek for assistance, as if there had beet 
any human strength which could hold oack the hand of death, which wat 
weighing down the sick man; but, at the threshold of the door, he four \ 
Aramis, who, with his finger on his lips, like the statue of Harpocrates, 
the god of silence, by a look motioned him back to the end of the apart 
ment. The physician and the confessor after having consulted each othe 
by their looks made a movement, however, as if to push Aramis aside} 
who, however, with two signs of the cross, each made ina different manner 
transfixed them both in their places. . 

“ A chief !” they both murmured. q 

Aramis slowly advanced into the room where the dying man was strug. 
gling against the first attack of the agony which had seized him. As for 
the Franciscan, whether owing to the effect of the elixir, or whether the 
appearance of ‘Aramis had restored his strength, he made a movement, 
and his eyes glaring, his mouth half open, and his hair damp with sweat, 
sat up upon the bed. Aramis felt that the air of the room was stifling ; the 
windows were closed ; the fire was burning upon the hearth ; a pair of 
candles of yellow wax were guttering down in the copper candlesticks, and 
still further increased, by their thick smoke, the temperature of the room, 
Aramis opened the window, and fixing upon the dying man a look full of 
intelligence and respect, said to him: “ Monseigneur, pray forgive my 
coming in this manner, before you summoned me, but your state alarm 
me, and I thought you might possibly die before you had seen me, for 
am only the sixth on your list.” 4 

The dying man started and looked at the list. j 

“You are, therefore, he who was formerly called Aramis, and since, the 
Chevalier d’Herblay : ? You are the Bishop of Vannes, then ?” 44 

“Yes, my lord.” “T know you, I have seen you.” ea 

“ At the last jubilee we were with the Holy Father together.” f 
F %: Yes, yes, I remember ; and you place yourself on the list of candle 

ates.” 

“‘ Monseigneur, I have heard it said that the order required to become 
possessed of a great state secret, and knowing that from modesty you had 
in anticipation resigned your functions in favour of the person who should 
be the depositary of this secret, I wrote to say that I was ready to compas 
possessing alone a secret which I believe to be important.” 

“Speak,” said the Franciscan, “I am ready to listen to you, and to 
judge of the importance of the secret.” 

‘A secret of the value of that which I have the honour to confide to 
you, cannot be communicated by word of mouth. Any idea which, when 
once expressed, has thereby lost its safeguard, and has become vulgarised 
by any manifestation or communication of it whatever, no longer is the 
property of him who gave it birth. My words may be overheard by some 
listener, or perhaps by an enemy ; one ought not, therefore, to speak at 
random, for, in such a case, the secret would cease to be one. » 

“How do you propose, then, to convey your secret 2” inquired the dying 
monk. 

With one hand Aramis signed to the physician and the confessor to with- 
draw, and with the other he handed to the Franciscan a paper enclosed 
in a double envelope. “Is not writing more dangerous still than lan- 
guage: p? 

CN o, my lord,” said Aramis, “for you will find within this envelope, 


THE STATE SECRET, 595 


laracters which you and I can alone understand.” The Franciscan looked 
Aramis with an astonishment which momentarily increased. 
“It is a cipher,” continued the latter, “which you used in 1655, and 
ich your secretary, Ivan Injan, who is dead, could alone decipher, if he 
ere to be restored to life.’ ——“ You knew this cipher, then ?” 
“Tt was I who taught it him,” said Aramis, bowing with a gracefulness 
ll of respect, and advancing towards the door as if to leave the room ; 
it a gesture of the Franciscan, accompanied by a cry for him to remain, 
tained him. 

i“ Ecce homo /” he exclaimed ; then reading the paper a second time, he 
Ned out, “Approach, approach quickly !” 

Aramis returned to the side of the Franciscan, with the same calm coun- 
mance and the same respectful manner, unchanged. The Franciscan, 
tending his arm, burnt by the flame of the candle the paper which 
ramis had handed him. Then, taking hold of Aramis’s hand, he drew 
m towards him, and inquired :—“ In what manner and by whose means 
wuld you possibly become acquainted with such a secret.” 

“Through Madame de Chevreuse, the intimate friend and confidante of 
‘€ queen.” 

‘“ And Madame de Chevreuse ——”——“ Is dead.” 

“Did any others know it ?” 
© A man and woman only, and they of the lower classes.” 

“Who are they ?”--—“ Persons who had brought him up.” 
“What has become of them ?” 

“Dead also. This secret burns like fire.” 

* And you have survived ?”——-“ No one is aware that I know it,” 

“ And for what length of time have you possessed this secret ?” 
'“ For the last fifteen years.” 

“ And you have kept it ?”—-—“ I wished to live.” 

“And you give it to the order without ambition, without acknow- 
dgment ?” 
.“T give it to the order with ambition and with a hope of return,” said 
ramis ; “ for if you live, my lord, you will make of me, now you know 
.e, what I can and ought to be.” ; 

And as I am dying,” exclaimed the Franciscan, “I constitute you my 
iccessor.... Thus.” And drawing off the ring, he passed it on 
ramis’s finger. Then, turning towards the two spectators of this scene, 
> said: “Be ye witnesses of this, and testify, if need be, that, sick in 
ddy, but sound in mind, I have freely and voluntarily bestowed this ring, 
.e token of supreme authority, upon Monseigneur d’Herblay, Bishop of 
annes, whom I nominate my successor, and before whom J, an humble 
nner, about to appear before Heaven, prostrate myself the first, as an 
sample for all to follow.” And the Franciscan bowed lowly and submis- 
vely, whilst the physician and the Jesuit fell on their knees. Aramis, 
ven while he became paler than the dying man himself, bent his looks 
iccessively upon all the actors of this scene. His gratified ambition 
awed with his blood towards his heart. 
“We must lose no time,” said the Franciscan ; “ what I had to do here 
‘urgent. I shall never succeed in carrying it out.” 
“J will do it,” seid Aramis. 
“That’s well,” said the Franciscan, and then turning towards the Jesuit 
ad the doctor, he added, “ Leave us alone,” a direction which they in- 
‘antly obeyed. . 
“With this sign,” he said, “ you are the man needed to shake the world 
38—2 


596 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


from one end to the other ; with this sign you will overthrow ; with t 
sign you will edify ; zz hoc signo vinces !” 
“Close the door,” continued the Franciscan, after a pause. Ara 
shut and bolted the door, and returned to the side of the Franciscan. 
“The pope has conspired against the order,” said the monk, “ the Dope 
must die.”—-—“ He shall die,” said Aramis, quietly. yy 
. “Seven hundred thousand livres are owing to a Bremen merchant of tk 
name of Donstett, who came here to get the guarantee of my signatur 
“He shall be paid,” said Aramis. 
“Six knights of Malta, whose names are written here, have discovere 
by the indiscreetness of one of the affiliated of the eleventh year, tl 
three mysteries ; it must be ascertained what these men have done wi 
the secret, to get it back again and crush it.”-—“ It shall be done.” 
“ Three dangerous affiliated members must be sent away into Thibet, 
perish there ; they are condemned. Here are their names.” 
“T will see that the sentence be carried out.” | 
“Lastly, there is a lady at Anvers, grand-niece of Ravaillac ; she holds 
certain papers in her hands which compromise the order.. There has been 
payable to the family during the last fifty-one years a pension of fifty- 
thousand livres. The pension is a heavy one, and the order is not wealthy, 
Redeem the papers for a sum of money paid down, or in case of refusal, 
stop the pension—but without risk.” r 
“T will think about what is best to be done,” said Aramis. re 
“A vessel chartered from Lima will have entered the port of Lisbon 
last week ; ostensibly it is laden with chocolate, in reality with gold, 
Every ingot is concealed by a coating of chocolate. The vessel belongs 
to the order; it is worth seventeen millions of livres, you will see that 
claim is laid to it ; here are the bills of lading.” 5 
“To what port shall I direct it to be taken ?>——“ To Bayonne.” = 
“Before three weeks are over it shall be there, wind and weather per- 
mitting. Is that all?’ The Franciscan made a sign in the affirmative, 
for he could no longer speak ; the blood rushed tc his throat and his 
head, and gushed from his mouth, his nostrils, and his eyes. The dying 
man had barely time to press Aramis’s hand, when he fell in convulsions 
from his bed upon the floor. Aramis placed his hand on the Francis- 
can’s heart, but it had ceased to beat. As he stooped down, Aramis ob- 
served that a fragment of the paper he had given the Franciscan had es- 
caped being burnt. He picked it up, and burnt it to the last atom. Then, 
summoning the confessor and the physician, he said to the former :— 
“Your penitent isin heaven ; he needs nothing more than prayers and the 
burial bestowed on the dead. Go and prepare what is necessary for a 
simple interment, such as a poor monk only would require. Go.” . 
The Jesuit left the room. Then, turning towards the physician, and ob- 
serving his pale and anxious face, he said, ina low tone of voice :—“ Mon- 
sieur Grisart, empty and clean this glass ; there is too much left in it o! 
what the grand council desired you to put in.” Grisart, amazed, overcome. 
completely astounded, almost fell backwards in his extreme terror. 
Aramis shrugged his shoulders in sign of pity, took the glass and poured 
out the contents among the ashes of the hearth. He then left the room, 
Carrying the papers of the dead man with him. | 


MISSION. 597 


CHAPTER CXXIX. 
MISSION, 


HE next day, or rather the same day (for the events we have just de- 
‘+ibed had been concluded only at three o’clock in the morning), before 
reakfast was served, and as the king was preparing to go to mass with 
.e two queens ; as Monsieur, with the Chevalier de Lorraine, and a few 
her intimate companions, was mounting his horse to set off for the river, 
, take one of those celebrated baths about which the ladies of the court 
ere almost mad ; as, in fact, no one remained in the chateau, with the ex- 
sption of Madame, who, under the pretext of indisposition, would not 
ave her room; Montalais was seen, or rather was not seen, to glide 
ealthily out -f the room appropriated to the maids of honour, leading La 
alligre after her, who tried to conceal herself as much as possible, and 
oth of them, hurrying secretly through the gardens, succeeded, looking 
sund them at every step they took, in reaching the thicket. The weather 
as cloudy, a hot air bowed the flowers and the shrubs before its blast ; 
ie burning dust swept along in clouds by the wind, was whirled in eddies 
ywards the trees. Montalais, who, during their progress, had discharged 
ne functions of aclever scout, advanced a few steps further, and, turning 
und again, to be quite sure that no one was either listening or approach- 
ig, said to her companion, “ Thank goodness, we are quite alone! Since 
esterday every one spies us here, and a circle seems to be drawn round 
s, as if we were plague-stricken.” La Valliére bent down her head and 
ighed, “It is positively unheard of,” continued Montalais ; “from M. 
falicorne to M. de Saint-Aignan, every one wishes to get hold of our 
acret. Come, Louise, letus concert a little together, in order that I may 
now what to do.” 

La Valliére lifted up towards her companion her beautiful eyes, pure and 
eep as the azure of a spring-time sky, “ And I,” she said, “I will ask you 
shy have we been summoned to Madame’s own apartment? Why have 
ve slept close to her apartment, instead of sleeping as usual in our own? 
Vhy did you return so late, and whence are these measures of strict super- 
ision which have been adopted since this morning, with respect to us 
»oth ?” 

_ “ My dear Louise, you answer my question by another, or rather, by ten 
thers, which is not answering me at all. I will tell you all you want to 
now later, and, as they are matters of secondary importance, you can 
yait. What I ask you—for everything will depend upon that—is, whether 
here is or is not any secret ?” 

“1 do not know if there is any secret,” said La Vallitre; “but I do 
snow, for my own part at least, that there has been great imprudence 
‘ommitted. ‘Since the foolish remark I made, and my still more silly 
ainting yesterday, every one here is making remarks about us.” 

_ © Speak for yourself,” said Montalais, laughing, “speak for yourself and 
or Tonnay-Charente ; for both of you made your declarations of love to the 
skies, and which unfortunately were intercepted.” 

La Valliére hung down her head. “Really you overwhelm me,” she 
said.——“‘I >» -—“ Yes, you kill me with your jests.” 

“ Listen to me, Louise. These are no jests, for nothing is more serious ; 
sn the contrary, 1 did not drag you out of the chd/eau , I did not miss 
attending mass; I did not pretend to have a cold, as Madame did, and 
which she has as much as I have ; and, lastly, I did not display ten times 


508 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. / 


more diplomacy than M. Colbert inherited from M. de Mazarin, afd 
makes use of with respect to M. Fouquet, in order to find means of com 
fiding my perplexities to you, for the sole end and purpose that when, a 
last, we are alone, and no one can listen to us, you are todeal hypocriticalh 
with me. No, no; believe me, that when I ask you any questions, it 
not from curiosity alone, but really because the position is a critical on 
What you said yesterday is now known,—it is a text on which every om 
is discoursing. Every one embellishes it to the utmost, and does so a 
cording to his own fancy; you had the honour last night, and you ha 
it still to-day, of occupying the whole court, my dear Louise; and th 
number of tender and witty remarks which have been ascnided to, yo 
would make Mademoiselle de Scudery and her brother burst from very 
spite, if they were faithfully reported to them.” . 

‘But, dearest Montalais,” said the poor girl, “you know better tha 
any one what I did say, since you were present when I said it.” 

“Yes, I know. But that is not the question. I have even not forgotte 
a single syllable you said ; but did you think what you were saying ?” 

Louise became confused. “ What,” she exclaimed, “more questio 
still! Oh, heavens ! when I would give the whole world to forget wh 
I did say, how does it happen that every one does all he possibly can to 


remind me of it? Oh, this is indeed terrible !’——“ What is?” b} 
‘To have a friend who ought to spare me, who might advise me and help 
me to save myself, and yet who is destroying—is killing me.” es) 


“ There, there, that will do,” said Montalais ; “ after having said too little, 
you now say too much. No one thinks of killing you, nor even of robbing 
you, even of your secret ; I wish to have it voluntarily, and in no other 
way ; for the question does not concern your own affairs only, but ours 
also ; and Tonnay-Charente would tell you as I do, ifshe were here. For, 
the fact is, that last evening she wished to have some private conversation 
in our room, and I was going there after the Manicampian and Malicornian 
colloquies had terminated, when I learnt, on my return, rather late it 
true, that Madame had sequestrated her maids of honour, and that we are 
to sleep in her apartments, instead of our own room. Moreover, Madame 
has sequestrated her maids of honour in order that they should not have 
the time to concert any measures together, and this morning she was 
closeted with Tonnay-Charente with the same object. Tell me, then, 
to what extent Athenais and Ican rely upon you, as we will tell you 
in what way you can rely upon us ?” } 

“T do not clearly understand the question you have put,” said Louise 
-much agitated. : 

“Hum ! and yet, on the contrary, you seem to understand me very well. 
However, I will put my questions in a more precise manner, in order that 
you may not be able, in the slightest degree to evade them. Listen to me. 
Do you love M. de Bragelonne? That is plain enough, is it not ?” 

At this question, which fell like the first projectile of a besieging army 
into a besieged town, Louise started. “ You ask me,” she exclaimed, “if I. 
love Raoul, the friend of my childhood,—my brother almost ?” : 

“No, no,no! Again you evade me, or rather, you wish to escape me. 
I do not ask you if you love Raoul, your childhood’s friend—your brother ; 
but I ask if you love the Vicomte de Bragelonne, your affianced husband ?” | 

ef Good heavens ! my dear Montalais,” said Louise, “how severe your 
tone is ! 

“You deserve no indulgence,—I am neither more nor less severe than. 
usual, I put a question to you, so answer it,” 


MISSION. 599 


| & You certainly do not,” said Louise, in a choking voice, “speak to me 
ke a friend ; but I will answer you as a true friend.” 

“ Well, do so.” 

“Very well ; my heart is full of scruples and silly feelings of pride, with 
aspect to everything that a woman ought to keep secret, and in this re- 
pect no one has ever read into the bottom of my soul.” 

_ “That I know very well. If I had read it, I should not interrogate you 
s I have done ; I should simply say,—‘ My good Louise, you have the 
appiness of an acquaintance with M. de Bragelonne, who is an excellent 
ung man, and an advantageous match for a girl without any fortune. 
A. de la Fére will leave something like fifteen thousand livres a year to 
is son. At a future day, then, you, as this son’s wife, will have fifteen 
housand livres a year, which is not bad. Turn, then, neither to the right 
and nor to the left, but go frankly to M. de Bragelonne ; that is to say, 
o the altar to which he will lead you. Afterwards, why—afterwards, ac- 
-ording to his disposition, you will be emancipated or enslaved ; in other 
vords, you will have a right to commit any piece of folly which people 
‘ommit who have either too much liberty or too little’ That is, my 
lear Louise, what I should have told you at first, if 1 had been able to read 
rour heart.” 

“ And I should have thanked you,” stammered out Louise, “although 
he advice does not appear to me to be altogether good.” 

“ Wait, wait. But immediately after having given you that advice, I 
should add : ‘ Louise, it is very dangerous to pass whole days with your 
aead reclining on your bosom, your hands unoccupied, your eyes restless 
and full of thought ; it is dangerous to prefer the least frequented paths, 
and no longer to be amused with such diversions as gladden young girls’ 
hearts ; it is dangerous, Louise, to write with the point of your foot, as 
you do, upon the gravel, certain letters which it is useless for you to efface, 
but which appear again under your heel, particularly when those letters 
rather resemble the letter L, than the letter B ; and, lastly, it is dangerous 
to allow the mind to dwell on a thousand wild fancies, the fruits of solitude 
and headaches ; these fancies, while they sink into a young girl’s mind, 
make her cheeks sink in also, so that it is not unusual, on these occasions, 
to find the most delightful persons in the world become the most disagree- 
able, and the wittiest to become the dullest.’ ” 

“TI thank you, dearest Aure,” replied La Valliére, gently ; “it is like 

you to speak to me in this manner, and I thank you for it.” 
“ “Jt was only for the benefit of wild dreamers, such as I described, that 
I spoke ; do not take any of my words, then, to yourself except such as 
you think you deserve. Stay, I hardly know what story recurs to my 
memory of some silly or melancholy young girl, who was gradually pining 
away because she fancied that the prince, or the king, or the emperor, 
whoever it was—and it does not much matter which—had fallen com- 
pletely in love with her ; while, on the contrary, the prince, or the king, or 
the emperor, whichever you please, was plainly in love with some one else, 
and—a singular circumstance, one, indeed, which she could not perceive, 
although every one around and about her, perceived it clearly enough—' 
‘made use of her as a screen for his own love affair. You laugh as I do, at 
this poor silly girl, do you not, Louise ?” 

“J laugh of course,” stammered out Louise, pale as death. 

“ And you are right, too, for the thing is amusing enough. ‘The story, 
whether true or false, amused me, and so I have remembered it and told 
it to you. Just imagine, then, my good Louise, the mischief that such a 


Goo THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


melancholy would create in your brain,—a melancholy, I mean, of tha 
kind. For my own part, I resolved to tell you the story; for, if such 
thing were to happen to either of us, it would be most essential to b 
assured of its truth ; to-day it is a snare, to-morrow it will become a jes 
and mockery, the next day it will be death itself” La Valliére startel 
again, and became, if possible, still paler. 
‘“ Whenever a king takes notice of us,” continued Montalais, “he lets 
us see it easily enough, and, if we happen to be the object he covets, he 
knows very well how to gain his object. You see, then, Louise, that in 
such circumstances, between young girls exposed to such a danger as} 
the one in question, the most perfect confidence should exist, in order} 
that those hearts which are not disposed towards melancholy, may watch) 
over those who are likely to become so.” : 
““ Silence, silence !” said La Valliére ; “some one approaches.” : 
“Some one is approaching in fact,” said Montalais ; “but who can if 
possibly be? Everybody is away, either at mass with the king, or bathing 
with Monsieur.” bs 
At the end of the walk the young girls perceived almost immediately, 
beneath the arching trees, the graceful carriage and noble height of E 
young man, who, with his sword under his arm and a cloak thrown across. 
his shoulders, and booted and spurred besides, saluted them from the 
distance with a gentle smile. “ Raoul !” exclaimed Montalais. & 
“M. de Bragelonne !” murmured Louise. ; 
‘A very proper judge to decide upon our difference of opinion,” said 
Montalais. 5 
“Oh, Montalais, Montalais, for pity’s sake,” exclaimed La Valliére 
“after having been so cruel, show me a little mercy !” These words, 
uttered with all the fervour of a prayer, effaced all trace of irony, if not 
from Montalais’ heart, at least from her face. - @ 
“Why, you are as handsome as Amadis, Monsieur de Bragelonne,” she 
cried to Raoul, “‘and armed and booted like him !” g 
“A thousand compliments, young ladies,” replied Raoul, bowing. : 
“But why, I ask, are you booted in this manner ?” repeated Montalais ¥ 
whilst La Valliére, although she looked at Raoul with a surprise equal to 
that of her companion, nevertheless uttered not a word. % 
“Why ?” inquired Raoul, “Yes,” ventured Louise. % 
*‘ Because I am about to set off,” said Bragelonne, looking at Louise. 
The young girl seemed as though smitten by some superstitious feeling 
of terror, and tottered. “You are going away, Raoul !” she cried; “and 
where are you going ?” ; 
“Dearest Louise,” he replied, with that quiet, composed manner which 
was natural to him, “I am going to England.” 
“What are you going to do in England ?” ' 
“The king has sent me there.” . 
“The king !” exclaimed Louise and Aure together, involuntarily ex. 
changing glances, the conversation which had just been interrupted re- 
curring to them both. Raoul intercepted the glance, but he could not 
understand its meaning, and, naturally enough, attributed it to the interest 
which both the young girls took in him. 
‘His majesty,” he said, “has been good enough to remember that the 
Comte de la Fére is high in favour with King Charles II. This morning, 
then, as he was on his way to attend mass, the king, seeing me as he 
passed, signed to me to approach, which I accordingly did. ‘ Monsieur 
de Bragelonne,’ he said to me, ‘you will call upon M. Fouquet, who-has 


ex 


MISSION. 601 


ceived from me letters for the King of Great Britain ; you will be the 
‘arer of them.’ I bowed. ‘Ah! his majesty added, ‘before you leave, 
m1 will be good enough to take any commissions which Madame may 
ve for the king her brother.’” 

“ Gracious Heaven !” murmured Louise, much agitated, and yet full of 
ought at the same time. 

“So quickly! You are desired to set off in such haste !” said Montalais, 
most paralysed by this unforeseen event. 

“ Properly to obey those whom we respect,” said Raoul, “it is necessary 
obey quickly. Within ten minutes after I had received the order, I was 
sady. Madame, already informed, is writing the letter which she is good 
rough to do me the honour of entrusting to me. In the meantime, learn- 
ig from Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente that it was likely you would 
e in this direction, I came here, and am happy to find you both.” 

'“ And both of us very suffering, as you see,” said Montalais, going to 
‘ouise’s assistance, whose countenance was visibly altered. 

“Suffering 2” repeated Raoul, pressing Louise’s hand with a tender 
uriosity. “ Your hand is like ice.” “Tt is nothing.” 

-“This coldness does not reach your heart, Louise, does it ?” inquired 
ye young man, with a tender smile. Louise raised her head hastily, as if 
nis question had been inspired by some suspicion, and had aroused a 
2eling ef remorse. 

“Oh, you know,” she said, with an effort, “that my heart will never be 
old towards a friend like yourself, Monsieur de Bragelonne.” 

“ Thank you, Louise. I know both your heart and your mind, and it is 
.ot by the touch of the hand that one can judge of an affection like yours. 
Zou know, Louise, how devotedly I love you, with what perfect and unre- 
erved confidence I have resigned my life to you ; will you not forgive me, 
hen, for speaking to you with something like the frankness of a child 2” 
| “Speak, Monsieur Raoul,” said Louise, trembling very much; “I am 
istening.” 

“I cannot part from you, -arrying away with mea thought which tor- 
nents me. Absurd I know it to be, and yet one which rends my very 
neart.” 

“ Are you going away, then, for any length of time 2” inquired La Val- 
igre, with a thickened utterance, while Montalais turned her head aside. 

“ No; and probably I shall not be absent more than a fortnight.” La 
Vallitre pressed her hand upon her heart, which felt as though it were 
oreaking. 

_ “Tt is strange,” pursued Raoul, looking at the young girl with a melan- 
sholy expression, “I have often left you when setting off on adventures 
fraught with danger. Then I started joyously enough—my heart free, my 
mind intoxicated by the thought of happiness in store for me, of hopes of 
which the future was full; and yet, at that time, I was about to face the 
Spanish cannon, or the halberds of the Walloons. To-day, without the 
existence of any danger or uneasiness, and by the easiest manner in the 
world, I am going in search of a glorious recompense, which this mark of 
the king’s favour seems to indicate ; for I am, perhaps, going to win you, 
Louise. What other favour, more precious than yourself, could the king 
confer upon me? Yet, Louise, in very truth, I know not how or why, but 
this happiness and this future seem to vanish from my eyes like smoke— 
like an idle dream ; and I feel here, here, at the very bottom of my heart, 
a deep-seated grief, a dejection which I cannot overcome—something 
heavy, passionless, death-like, resembling a corpse. Oh, Louise, too well 


602 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


do I know why; it is because I have never loved you so truly as not 
God help me !” 
At this last exclamation, which issued, as it were, from a broken hea 
Louise burst into tears, and threw herself into Montalais’s arms. T 
latter, although she was not very easily impressed, felt the tears rush to 
her eyes. Raoul saw only the tears which Louise shed ; his look, however 
did not penetrate —nay, sought not to penetrate—beyond those tears. He 
bent his knee before her, and tenderly kiss~d her hand ; and it was evident 
that in that kiss he poured out his whole heart before her. 
‘Rise, rise,” said Montalais to him, herself ready to cry ; “ for Athenaig 
is coming.” 4 
Raoul rose, brushed his knee with the back of his hand, smiled again 
upon Louise, whose eyes were fixed on the ground, and, having presse 
Montalais’s hand gratefully, he turned round to salute Mademoiselle d 
Tonnay-Charente, the sound of whose silken robe was already heard upon) 
the gravel-walk. “ Has Madame finished her letter ?” he inquired, when 
the young girl came within reach of his voice. | 
“ Yes, the letter is finished, sealed, and her royal highness is ready to 
receive you.” | 
Raoul, at this remark, hardly gave himself time to salute Athenais, cast 
one last look at Louise, bowed to Montalais, and withdrew in the direction 
of the chateau. As he withdrew he again turned round, but at last, at the 
end of the grand walk, it was useless to do so again, as he could no longer 
see them. The three young girls, on their side, had, with very different 
feelings, watched him disappear. | 
“At last,” said Athenais, the first to interrupt the silence, “at last we 
are alone, free to talk of yesterday’s great affair, and to come to an under- 
standing upon the conduct it is advisable for us to pursue. Besides, if 
you will listen to me,” she continued, looking round on all sides, “I will 
explain to you, as briefly as possible, in the first place, our own duty, such 
as I imagine it to be, and if you do not understand a hint, what is 
Madame’s desire on the subject.” And Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Cha- 
rente pronounced these words in such a tone as to leave no doubt, in her 
companion’s minds, upon the official character with which she was in- 
vested. ! 
‘“Madame’s desire !” exclaimed Montalais and La Valliare together. 
“Her ultimatum,” replied Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, diplo- 
matically. | 
“But,” murmured La Valliére, “does Madame know, then——” | 
“Madame knows more about the matter than we said, even,” said Athe- 
nai, in a formal, precise manner. ‘“ Therefore, let us come to a proper. 
understanding.” 


“Yes, indeed,” said Montalais, “and I am listening in breathless atten- 
tion.” | 


“Gracious Heaven !” murmured Louise, trembling, “ shall I ever survive 
this cruel evening >” | 

“Oh ! do not frighten yourself in that manner,” said Athenais ; “we 
have found a remedy for it.” So, seating herself between her two com- 
panions, and taking each of them by the hand, which she held in her own, 
she began. The first words were hardly spoken, when they heard a horse 
galloping away over the stones of the public high-road, outside the gates 


of the chateau. 


| 


HAPPY AS A PRINCE, 603 


CHAPTER CXXX, 
HAPPY AS A PRINCE. 


T the very moment he was about entering the chateau, Bragelonne had 
net De Guiche. But before having been met by Raoul, De Guiche had 
net Manicamp, who had met Malicorne. How was it that Malicorne had 
net Manicamp? Nothing more simple, for he had awaited his return from 
mass, where he had accompanied M. de Saint-Aignan. When they had 
net, they congratulated each other upon their good fortune, and Manicamp 
jad availed himself of the circumstance to ask his friend if he had not a 
few crowns still remaining at the bottom of his pocket. The latter, without 
expressing any surprise at the question, and which he expected perhaps, 
had answered that every pocket which is always being drawn upon without 
anything ever being put in it, greatly resembles those wells which can supply 
water during the winter, but which the gardeners render useless by exhaust- 
ing them during the summer ; that his, Malicorne’s pocket, certainly was 
deep, and that there would be a pleasure in drawing on it in times of plenty, 
but that, unhappily, abuse had produced barrenness. To this remark, Mani- 
camp, deep in thought, had replied, “ Quite true ” 

_ “The question, then, is how to fill it?” Malicorne had added. 

| “Of course ; but in what way ?” 

. “Nothing easier, my dear Monsieur Manicamp.” 

- “So much the better. How?” 

“ A post in Monsieur’s household, and the pocket is full again.” 

“You have the post ?” 
| That is, I have the promise of being nominated.” 
| “Well ?”——“Yes; but the promise of nomination, without the post 
itself, is the purse without money.” 
 * Quite true,’ Manicamp had replied a second time. 

' “Tet us try for the post, then,” the candidate had persisted. 

| My dear fellow,” sighed Manicamp, “an appointment in his royal 
highness’s household is one of the gravest difficulties of our position,” 

wm * Oh! oh ? 

“There is no question that, at the present moment, we cannot ask Mon- 
sieur for anything.” 

_ “Why so?” “ Because we are not on good terms with him.” 
» “A great absurdity, too,” said Malicorne promptly. 

“Bah ! and if we were to show Madame any attention,” said Manicamp, 
frankly speaking, do you think we should please Monsieur ?” 

_ Precisely ; if we show Madame any attention, and do so adroitly, Mon- 
‘sieur ought to adore us.”——“ Hum !” 

“Either that, or we are great fools ; make haste, therefore, M. Mani- 
‘camp, you who are so able a politician, to make M. de Guiche and his 
royal highness friendly again.” 

_ “Tell me, what did M. de Saint-Aignan tell you, Malicorne ?” 

“ Tell me? nothing ; he asked me several questions, and that was all.” 

| Well, he was less discreet, then, with me.” 

_ What did he tell you ?” 

| «That the king is passionately in love with Mademoiselle de la Valliére.” 
_ “We knew that already,” replied Malicorne, ironically ; “and every- 
‘body talks about it loud enough for every one to know it ; but in the mean- 
time, do what I advise you ; speak to M. de Guiche, and endeavour to get 
him to make an advance towards Monsieur. Deuce take it ! he owes his 
royal highness that, at least.” 


604 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“But we must see De Guiche, then ?” 
“There does not seem to be any great difficulty in that ; try to see him 
in the same way I tried to see you; wait for him, you know that he & 
naturally very fond of walking.” 
Yes ; but whereabouts does he walk ?” § 
“What a question to ask! Do you not know that he is in love with 
Madame ?” “So it is said.” ‘ 
“Very well; you will find him walking about on the side of the chateau 
where her apartments are.” 
“Stay, my dear Malicorne, you were not mistaken, for here he 
coming.” 4 
“Why should I be mistaken? Have you ever noticed that I am it 
the habit of making a mistake? Come, we only need to understand each 
other. Are you in want of money ?” 
Ah !” exclaimed Manicamp, mournfully. E 
“Well, I want my appointment. Let Malicorne have the appointment, 
and Manicamp shall have the money. There is no greater difficulty i 
the way than that.” 
“Very well ; in that case make yourself easy. I will do my best.” 
a9 Do so.” aa 
De Guiche approached, Malicorne stepped aside, and Manicamp caught 
hold of De Guiche, who was thoughtful and melancholy. “Tell me, my 
dear comte, what rhyme you were trying to find,” said Manicamp. “I 
have an excellent one to match yours, particularly if yours ends in ame.” 
De Guiche shook his head, and, recognising a friend, he took him by) 
the arm. ‘My dear Manicamp,” he said, “I am in search of something | 
very different from a rhyme.” g 
“What is it you are looking for ?” 
You will help me to find what I am in search of,” continued the comte 
“you, who are such an idle fellow, in other words, a man with a mind full” 
of ingenious devices ?” 
“Iam getting my ingenuity ready, then, my dear comte.” 4 
“This is the state of the case, then: I wish to approach toa particular 
house, where I have some business.” 
“You must get near to the house, then,” said Manicamp. 3 
“Very good; but in this house dwells a husband who happens to be 
jealous.” 4 
“Ts he more jealous than the dog Cerberus ?” 
“ Not more, but quite as much so.” 7 
‘Has he three mouths, as that obdurate guardian of the infernal regions 
had? Do not shrug your shoulders, my dear comte ; I put the question 
to you with a perfect reason for doing so, since poets pretend that, in ord 
to soften Monsieur Cerberus, the visitor must take something entici 
with him—a cake, for instance. Therefore I, who view the matter in 
prosaic light, that is to say, the light of reality, I say : one cake is very 
little for three mouths. If your jealous husband has three mouths, comte, — 
get three cakes.” - 
‘““Manicamp, I can get such advice as that from M. de Beautru.” | 
“In order to get better advice,” said Manicamp, with a comical seriouse 
ness of expression, “you will be obliged to adopt a more precise formula | 
than you have used towards me.” : a 
“If Raoul were here,” said De Guiche, “he would be sure to under- - 
stand me.” | 


“So I think, particularly if you said to him: ‘I should very much like | 


HAPPY AS A PRINCE, 605 


o see Madamea little nearer, but I fear Monsieur, because he is jealous.” 
“ Manicamp !” cried the comte, angrily, and endeavouring to overwhelm 

is tormentor by a look, who did not, however, appear to be in the slightest 

legree disturbed by it. 

| ©What is the matter now, my dear comte ?” inquired Manicamp. 

| “ What ! is it thus that you blaspheme the most sacred of names ?” 

. 

i 

: 

| 


“ What names?” 

“ Monsieur ! Madame! the highest names in the kingdom.” 

_ “You are very strangely mistaken, my dear comte, I never mentioned 
he highest names in the kingdom. I merely answered you in reference 
0 the subject of a jealous husband, whose name you did not tell me, and 
who, as a matter of course, has a wife. I therefore, I repeat, replied to 
you, in order to see Madame, you must get a little more intimate with 
Monsieur.” 

“Jester, that you are,” said the comte, smiling ; “was that what you 
aid »”»——‘* Nothing else.” 

“Very good ; what then?” 

“ Now,” added Manicamp, “let the question be regarding the Duchess 
or the Duke ; very well, I shall say: Let us get into the 
jouse in some way or another ; for that is a tactic which cannot in any 
-ase be unfavourable to your love affair.” 

“Ah! Manicamp, if you could find me a pretext, a good pretext.” 

| “ A pretext ; I can find you a hundred, nay, a thousand. If Malicorne 
vere here, he would have already hit upon fifty thousand excellent pre- 
jexts.” 

| “Who is Malicorne ?” replied De Guiche, half:shutting his eyes like a 
derson reflecting, “I seem to know that name.” 

“ Know him! I should think so ; you owe his father thirty thousand 
-rowns,” 

_ “Ah, indeed ! so it’s that worthy fellow from Orleans.” 

“Whom you promised an appointment in Monsieur’s household ; not 
he jealous husband, but the other.” 

“Well, then, since your friend Malicorne is such an inventive genius, 
et him find me a means of being adored by Monsieur, and a pretext to 
nake my peace with him.” 

_ “Very good; I'll talk to him about it.” 

“But who is that coming ?/——“ The Vicomte de Bragelonne.” 

“Raoul ! yes, it is he,” said De Guiche, as he hastened forward to meet 
aim. ‘ You here, Raoul !” said De Guiche. 

_ “Yes, I was looking for you to say farewell,” replied Raoul, warmly 
oressing the comte’s hands. ‘‘ How do you do, Monsieur Manicamp ?” 

- How is this, vicomte ; you are leaving us ?” 

_ “Yes, a mission from the king,” “ Where are you going ?” 

- “To London. On leaving you, I am going to Madame, she hasa letter 
to give me for his majesty Charles II.” 

~ ©Youy will find her alone, for Monsieur has gone out ; gone to bathe, in 
fact.” 

“In that case, you, who are one of Monsieur’s gentlemen in waiting, will 
undertake to make my excuses to him. I should have waited in order to 
receive any directions he might have to give me, if the desire for my imme- 
diate departure had not been intimated to me by M. Fouquet on behalf of 
his majesty.” 

Manicamp touched De Guiche’s elbow, saying, ‘ There’s a pretext for 
you. 


606 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“What ?”——“ M. de Bragelonne’s excuses.” 

“A weak pzetext,” said De Guiche. 

“An excellent one, if Monsieur is not angry with you; buta paltry oné 
if he bears you ill-will.” 

“You are right, Manicamp ; a pretext, whatever it may be, is all Ir 
quire. And soa pleasant journey to you, Raoul.” And the two friends 
thereupon took a warm leave of each other. Five minutes afterwards 
Raoul entered Madame’s apartments, as Mademoiselle de Montalais had 
begged him to do. Madame was still seated at the table where she had 
written her letter. Before her was still burning the rose-coloured tape 
which she had used to seal it. Only in her deep reflection, for Madame 
seemed to be buried in thought, she had forgotten to extinguish the taper, 
Bragelonne was expected, and was announced, therefore, as soon as hé 
appeared. Bragelonne was avery model of elegance in every way ; it wag 
impossible to see him once without always remembering him ; and, not 
only had Madame seen him once, but it will not be forgotten he was one 
of the very first who had gone to meet her, and had accompanied her 
from Havre to Paris. Madame had preserved, therefore, an excellent re- 
collection of him. ; 

“Ah! M. de Bragelonne,” she said to him, “you are going to see my 
brother, who will be delighted to pay to the son a portion of the debt of 
gratitude he has contracted with the father.” ; 

“The Comte de la Fére, madame, has been abundantly recompensed 
for the little service he had the happiness to render the king, by the kind: 
ness which the king manifested towards him, andit is I who will have ta 
convey to his majesty the assurance of the respect, devotion, and grati- 
tude of father and son.”——“ Do you know my brother ?” : 

“No, your highness ; I shall have the honour of seeing his majesty for 
the first time.” | 

“You require no recommendation to him. At all events, however, if 
you have any doubt about your personal merit, take me unhesitatingly for 
your surety.” | 

“ Your royal highness overwhelms me with your kindness.” | 

“No! M. de Bragelonne, I well remember that we were fellow-travel-. 
lers once, and that I remarked your extreme prudence in the midst of the 
extravagant absurdities committed, on both sides, by two of the greatest 
simpletons in the world, M. de Guiche, and the Duke of Buckingham, 
Let us not speak of them, however, but of yourself. Are you going to- 
England to remain there permanently? Forgive my inquiry, but it is not 
curiosity, but a desire to be of service to you in anything that I can do.” _ 

“No, Madame; I am going to England to fulfil a mission which his” 
majesty has been kind enough to confide to me—nothing more.” i 

‘And you propose to return to France ?” 4 
" “ As soon as I shall have accomplished my mission ; unless, indeed, his 
majesty King Charles II. should have other orders for me.” . 

“ He will beg you, at the very least, I am sure, to remain near him as 
long as possible.” 

“In that case, as I shall not know howto refuse, I will now beforehand 
entreat your royal highness to have the goodness to remind the king of 
France that one of his devoted servants is far away from him.” 

“Take care that at the time you are recalled, you do not consider his 
command as an abuse of power.”——“] do not understand you, madame.” 

“The court of France is not easily matched, I am aware; but yet we 
have some pretty women at the court of England also.” Raoul smiled, 


Ci 


HAPPY AS A PRINCE. 607 


“Oh !” said Madame, “ yours is a smile which portends no good to my 
untrywomen. It is as though you were telling them, Monsieur de Bra- 
lonne : ‘I visit you, but I leave my heart on the other side of the Chan- 

sl? Did not your smile indicate that ?” 

“Your highness is gifted with the power of reading the inmost depths 

* the soul, and you will understand, therefore, why, at present, any pro- 

nged residence at the court of England would be a matter of the deepest 

»gret for me.” 

“And I need not inquire if so gallant a knight is recompensed in 
sturn 2” 

“ I have been brought up, Madame, with her whom I love, and I believe 
at our affection is mutual.” 

“In that case, do not delay your departure, Monsieur de Bragelonne, 
ad delay not your return, for on your return we shall see two persons 
appy ; for I hope no obstacle exists to your felicity.” 

“There is a great obstacle, Madame.” 

“Indeed ! what is it” “ The king’s wishes on the subject.” 

“The king opposes your marriage ?” 

“He postpones it at least. I solicited his majesty’s consent through the 
‘omte de la Fére, and without absolutely refusing it, he at least positively 
aid it must be deferred.” 

“Ts the young lady whom you love unworthy of you, then ie 

“ She is worthy of a king’s affection, Madame.” 

“TI mean, she is not, perhaps, of birth equal to your own.” 

“ Her family is excellent.’—— “Is she young, beautiful ?” 

‘She is seventeen, and, in my opinion, exceedingly beautiful.” 

“Is she in the country, or at Paris?” 

* She is here, at Fontainebleau, Madame.” 

“ At the court ?”>——“ Yes.” 

“Do I know her ?” 

“‘ She has the honour to form one of your highness’s household.” 

“ Her name ?” inquired the princess, anxiously ; “if, indeed,” she added 
astily, “her name is not a secret.” 

“No, Madame, my affection is too pure for me to make a secret of it 
or any one, and with still greater reason for your royal highness, whose 
indness towards me has been so extreme. It is Mademoiselle Louise de 
a Vallicre.” 

Madame could not restrain an exclamation, in which a feeling stronger 
han surprise might have been detected. “Ah!” she said, “La Valli¢re 
-—she who yesterday ” she paused, and then continued, “she who 
vas taken ill, 1 believe.” 

“Yes, Madame ; it was only this morning that I heard of the accident 
vhich had befallen her.” 

“Did you see her before you came to me ?” 

“‘T had the honour of taking leave of her.” 

“ And you say,” resumed Madame, making a powerful effort over her- 
elf, “that the king has——deferred your marriage with this young girl.” 

“Ves, Madame, deferred it.” 

“Did he assign any reason for this postponement ?’——“‘ None.” 

““ How long is it since the Comte de la Fére preferred his request to the 
cing ?”——“ More than a month, Madame.” 

“Tt is very singular,” said the princess, as something like a cloud passed 
icross her eyes. “A month?” she repeated.— “ About a month.” 

“You are right, vicomte,” said the princess with a smile, in which De 


608 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


Bragelonne might have remarked a kind of restraint, “my brother mug 
not keep you too long in England ; set off at once, and in the first letter 
write to England, I will claim you in the king’s name.” | And Madame 
rose to place her letter in Bragelonne’s hands, Raoul understood that hi 
audience was at an end ; he took the letter, bowed lowly to the princess, 
and left the room. 5 

“ A month !” murmured the princess ; “ could I have been blind, then 
to so great an extent, and could he have loved her for this last month ® 
And as Madame had nothing to do, she sat down to begin a letter to het 
brother, the postscript of which was a summons for Bragelonne to retur 

The Comte de Guiche, as we have seen, had yielded to the pressing 
persuasions of Manicamp, and allowed himself to be led to the stables 
where they desired their horses to be got ready for them ; then, by one of 
the side paths, a description of which has already been given, they advancet 
to meet Monsieur, who, having just finished bathing, was returning towards 
the chateau, wearing a woman’s veil to protect his face from getting burni 
by the sun, which was already very powerful. Monsieur was in one o 
those fits of good humour which inspired him sometimes with an admira: 
tion of his own good looks. As he was bathing he had been able to com: 
pare the whiteness of his body with that of his courtiers, and, thanks to 
the care which his royal highness took of himself, no one, not even th 
Chevalier de Lorraine, could bear the comparison. Monsieur, moreove 
had been tolerably successful in swimming, and his muscles having bee 
exercised by the healthy immersion in the cool water, he was in a ligt 
and cheerful state of mind and body. So that, at the sight of Guiche, wh 
advanced to meet him at a hand gallop, mounted upon a magnificent 
white horse, the prince could not restrain an exclamation of delight. 3 

“T think matters look well,” said Manicamp, who fancied he could read 
this friendly disposition upon his royal highness’s countenance. 

‘Good day, De Guiche, good day,” exclaimed the prince. . 

“ Long life to your royal highness !” replied De Guiche, encouraged by 
the tone of Philip’s voice ; “health, joy, happiness, and prosperity to yout 
highness.” % 

“Welcome, De Guiche, come on my right side, but keep your horse in 
hand, for I wish to return at a walking pace, under the cool shade of these 
trees.” 

“As you please, monseigneur,” said De Guiche, taking his place on th 
prince’s right, as he had just been invited to do. 

“Now, my dear De Guiche,” said the prince, “give me a little news 
that De Guiche whom I used to know formerly, and who used to pa 
attentions to my wife.” 

Guiche blushed to the very whites of his eyes, while Monsieur burst ou 
laughing, as though he had made the wittiest remark in the world. The 
few privileged courtiers who surrounded Monsieur thought it their duty to 
follow his example, although they had not heard the remark, and a noisy 
burst of laughter immediately followed, beginning with the first courtier, 
passing on through the whole company, and only terminating with the 
last. De Guiche, although blushing extremely, put a good countenance 
on the matter: Manicamp looked at him. 

“Ah! monseigneur,” replied De Guiche, “show a little charity towards 
such a miserable fellow as I am ; do not hold me up to the ridicule of the 
Chevalier de Lorraine.” “How do you mean ?” 

“If he hears you ridicule me, he will go beyond your highness, and will 
show no pity.”—-—“ About your passion and the princess, do you mean 2” 


HAPPY AS A PRINCE. 609 


| 

i For mercy’s sake, monseigneur.” 

lg Come, come, De Guiche, confess that you did get a little sweet upon 
adame.”——* I will never confess such a thing, monseigneur.” 

“Out of respect for me, I suppose ; but I release you from your respect, 
e Guiche. Confess, as if it were simply a question about Mademoiselle 
+ Chalais and Mademoiselle de la Vallicre.” 

Then breaking off, he said, beginning to laugh again, “Come, that is 
‘ry good—a remark like a sword which cuts two ways at once. I hit you 
id my brother at the same time, Chalais and La Valliére, your affianced 
ide and his future lady-love.” 

“Really, monseigneur,” said the comte, “you are in a most brilliant 
imour to-day.” 

“The fact is, I feel well, and then I am pleased to see you again. But 
yu were angry with me, were you not ?” 

“TJ, monseigneur? Why should I have been so?” 

“Because I interfered with your sarabands and your other Spanish 
nusements. Nay, do not deny it. On that day you left the princess’s 
yartments with your eyes full of fury; that brought you ill-luck, for you 
inced in the ballet yesterday in a most miserable manner. Now, don’t 
+t sulky, De Guiche, for it does you no good, but makes you look as surly 
.a bear. Ifthe princess did look at you attentively yesterday, I am quite 
re of one thing.” 

“What is that, monseigneur? Your highness alarms me.” 
“She has quite forsworn you now,” said the prince, with a burst of loud 
ughter. 

“ Decidedly,” thought Manicamp, “rank has nothing to do with it, and 
1 men are alike.” 
The prince continued :—“ At all events, you are now returned, and it is 
1 be hoped that the chevalier will become amiable again.” 

“How so, monseigneur ; and by what miracle can I exercise such an 
fluence over M. de Lorraine ?” 
“The matter is very simple, he is jealous of you.” 

“Bah ! it is not possible.” ~—“ It is the case, though.” 
© He docs me too much honour, then.” 
“The fact is, that when you are here he is full of kindness and attention, 
it when you are gone he makes me suffer a perfect martyrdom. I am 
<e asee-saw. Besides, you do not knowthe idea which has struck me ? 
*“T do not even suspect it.” 
“Well, then; when you were in exile, for you really were exiled my 
yor De Guiche——” 

* T should think so, indeed ; but whose fault was it ?” said De Guiche 
retending to speak in an angry tone. 
-“ Not mine, certainly, my dear comte,” replied his royal highness, “ upor 
ty honour, I did not ask the king to exile you.” 
“No, not you, monseigneur, I am well aware ; but——’ 
“But Madame; well, as far as that goes, I do not say it is not the case, 
Thy, what the deuce did you do or say to Madame ?” 

“Really, monseigneur——” 

“Women, I know, have their grudges, and my wife is not free from 
iprices of that nature. But if she were the cause of your being exiled, I 
2ar you no ill-will.” 

“In that case, monseigneur,” said De Guiche, “I am not unhappy 
together.” 

Manicamp, who was following closely behind De Guiche, and who did 


39 


? 


610 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


not lose a word of what the prince was saying, bent down to his vey 
shoulders over his horse’s neck, in order to conceal the laughter he could 
not repress. : a 
“ Besides, your exile started a project in my head.” -—“ Good.” 
“When the chevalier—finding you were no longer here, and sure 6 
reigning undisturbed—began to bully me, I, observing that my wife, in th 
most perfect contrast to him, was most kind and amiable towards me, wh 
had neglected her so much, the idea occurred to me of becoming a mod 
husband—a rarity, a curiosity, at the court ; and I had an idea of getti 
very fond of my wife.” ; 
De Guiche looked at the prince with a stupefied expression of counte. 
nance, which was not assumed. - 
“Oh! monseigneur,” De Guiche stammered out tremblingly ; surelj 
that idea did not seriously occur to you.” 
“Indeed it did. J have some property that my brother gave me on 1 
marriage ; she has some money of her. own, and not a little, either, for sh 
gets money from her brother and brother-in-law of England and Frane 
at the same time. Well! we should have left the court. I should hay 
retired tomy chateau at Villers-Cotterets, situated in the middle of a fores 
in which we should have led a most sentimental life in the very same spe 
where my grandfather, Henry IV., did with La Belle Gabrielle. What d 
you think of that idea De Guiche?” i 
“Why, it is enough to make one shudder, monseigneur,” replied De 
Guiche, who shuddered in reality. | 
““Ah! I see you would never be able to endure being exiled a second 
time.” “J, monseigneur ?” 
“ T will not carry you off with us, as I had at first intended.” 
“What, with you, monseigneur ?” 
“Yes ; if the idea should occur to me again of taking a dislike to the 
court ?” ' j 
“Oh! do not let that make any difference, monseigneur; I would 
follow your highness to the end of the world.” q 
“Clumsy fellow, that you are!” said Manicamp, grumblingly, pushing 
his horse towards De Guiche, so as almost to unseat him, and then, as h 
passed close to him, as if he had lost his command over the horse, hi 
whispered, “‘ For goodness’ sake, think what you are saying.” ’ 
“Well, it is agreed, then,” said the prince; “since you are so devote 
to me, I shall take you with me.” : 
“Anywhere, everywhere, monseigneur,” replied De Guiche in a joyou 
tone, “ whenever you like, and at once, too. Are you ready ?” - 
And De Guiche, laughingly, gave his horse the rein, and galloped for 
ward a few yards. a 
“One moment,” said the prince. “ Let us go to the chateau first.” 
“What for?” -—“ Why, to take my wife, of course.” : 
“What for?” asked De Guiche. 
“Why, since I tell you that it is a project of conjugal affection, it is 
hecessary I should take my wife with me.” | 
“In that case, monseigneur,” replied the comte, “Iam greatly con- 
cerned, but no De Guiche for you.” “Bah 
‘Yes.—Why do you take Madame with you ?” 
‘Because I begin to see that I love her,” said the prince. 
De Guiche turned slightly pale, but endeavoured to preserve his seeming 
cheerfulness. 
“If you love Madame, monseigneur,” he said, “that ought to be quite 
enough for you, and you have no further need of your friends.” 


HAPPY AS A PRINCE. 


' Not bad, not bad,” murmured Manicamp. 
‘There, your fear of Madame has begun again,” replied the pri 

‘Why, monseigneur, I have experienced that tomy cost; a 

o was the cause of my being exiled.” 

‘What a horrible disposition you have, De Guiche ; how terribly y 
ar malice.” -—‘* I should like the case to be your own, monseigneutr.’ 
Decidedly, then, that was the reason why you danced so badly yester- 
y; you wished to revenge yourself, 1 suppose, by trying to make 
adame make a mistake in her dancing; ah! that is very paltry, De 
liche, and I will tell Madame of it.” 

“You can tell her whatever you please, monseigneur, for her highness 
nnot hate me more than she does.” 

“Nonsense, you are exaggerating ; and this because merely of the 
ctnight’s sojourn in the country she imposed on you.” 

“ Monseigneur, a fortnight is a fortnight ; and when the time was passed 
getting sick and tired of everything, a fortnight is an eternity.” 

So that you will not forgive her ?”——“ Never !” 

'“ Come, come, De Guiche, be a better disposed fellow than that. I wish 
'make your peace with her ; you will find, in conversing with her, that 
te has no malice or unkindness in her nature, and that she is very 
Jented.”—-— “ Monseigneur a 

“You will see, that she can receive her friends like a princess, and 
ugh like a citizen’s wife ; you will see that, when she pleases, she can 
ake the hours pass away like minutes. Come, De Guiche, you must really 
ake up your differences with my wife.” 

“Upon my word,” said Manicamp to himself, “the prince isa husband, 
hose wife’s name will bring him ill-luck, and King Candaules, of old, was 
complete tiger beside his royal highness.” 

“© At all events,” added the prince, “I am sure you will make it up with 
vy wife ; I guarantee you will do so. Only, I must show you the way 
low. There is nothing common-place about her, and it is not every one 
ho takes her fancy.” ——“ Monseigneur——” 

| No resistance, De Guiche, or | shall get out of temper,” replied the 

rince. 

“Well, since he will have it so,” murmured Manicamp, in Guiche’s ear, 
do as he wants you to do.” 

© Well, monseigneur,” said the comte, “1 obey.” 

“ And to begin,” resumed the prince, “ there wiil be cards this evening, 
4 Madame’s apartment ; you will dine with me, and I will take you there 
vith me.” 

“Oh! as for that, monseigneur,” objected De Guiche, “ you will allow 
qe to object.” —— “ What, again ! this is positive rebellion.” 

“ Madame received me too indifferently, yesterday, before the whole 
ourt.”——“ Really,” said the prince, laughing. 

“ Nay, so much so, indeed, that she did not even answer me, when I 
ddressed her ; it may be a good thing to have no self-respect at all, but 
o have too little is not enough, as the saying is.” 

“ Comte! after dinner you will go to your own apartments, and dress 
yourself, and then you will come to fetch me. _I shall wait for you.” 

“Since your highness absolutely commands it, "= Positively.” 

“ He'll not let go his hold,” said Manicamp ; “ these are the sort of things 
which husbands cling most obstinately to.—Ah ! what a pity M. Molicre 
pus not have heard this man, he would have turned him into verse if he 
aad. 


RF at 


THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. ; 


mce and his court, chatting in this manner, returned to th 
partments of the chateau. | p 
-the-bye,” said De Guiche, as they were standing by the door, “] 
a commission for your royal highness.” * ‘ 
“Execute it, then.” 
“‘M. de Bragelonne has, by the king’s order, set off for London, and h 
charged me with his respects for you, monseigneur.” = 

“A pleasant journey to the vicomte, whom I like very much. Go am 
dress yourself De Guiche, and come back for me. If you don’t com 
back Z ‘ 

“What will happen then, monseigneur?” 

“I will get you sent to the Bastille.” q 

“Well,” said De Guiche, laughing, “his royal highness, monseigneui 
is decidedly the counterpart of her royal highness, Madame. Madame get 
me sent into exile, because she does not care for me sufficiently ; ane 
Monseigneur gets me imprisoned, because he cares for me too much. 1] 
thank Monseigneur, and I thank Madame.” f 

“Come, come,” said the prince, “you are a delightful companion, an¢ 
you know that I cannot do without you. Return as soon as you can.” 

“Very well; but Iam in the humour to prove myself difficult to be 
pleased in my turn, monseigneur.”———“ Bah !”” . 

“So, I will not return to your royal highness, except upon one condition. 

“ Name it.” “I want to oblige the friend of one of my friends.” 

** What’s his name ?” 

** Malicorne.” “An ugly name.” 

“But very well borne, monseigneur.” “That may be. Well !” 

“Well, I owe M. Malicorne a place in your household, monseigneur.” 

“What kind of a place ?)——“‘Any kind of place ; a supervision of some 
sort or another, for instance.” ‘ 

“That happens very fortunately, for yesterday, I dismissed my chief 
usher of the apartments.” 4 

“That will do admirably. What are his duties ?” 

“Nothing, except to look about and make his report.” 


“A sort of interior police ?——“ Exactly.” . 

“ Ah, how excellently that will suit Malicorne,’ Manicamp ventured 
to say. 

“You know the person we are speaking of, M. Manicamp ?” inquire¢ 
the prince. 


“Intimately, monseigneur. I am the friend in question.” 
‘And your opinion is ?” 
“ That your highness could never get such an usher of the apartments 
as he will make.” 4 
“ How much does the appointment bring in ?” inquired the comte of the 
prince. 
“TI don’t know at all, only I have always been told that he could make 
as much as he pleased when he was thoroughly employed.” : 
: What do you call being thoroughly occupied, prince ?” a. 
_ It means, of course, when the functionary in question is a man with 
his wits about him.” 
“In that case I think your highness will be content, for Malicorne ig as 
sharp as the devil himself.” 
: : : ; 
“Good! the appointment will be an expensive one for me, in that case.” 
replied the prince, laughing. “ You are making me a positive present, 
comte,”——- I believe so, monseigneur.” 


HAPPY AS A PRINCE. 613 


'Well, go and announce to your M. Mélicorne——” 

‘Maiicorne, monseigneur ” 

*I shall never get hold of that name.” 

‘You say Manicamp very well, monseigneur.” 

‘Oh, I ought to say Malicorne very well, too. Custom will help me.” 

‘Say what you like, monseigneur, I can promise you that your inspector 

apartments will not be annoyed ; he is the very happiest disposition 

it can be met with.” 

‘Well, then, my dear De Guiche, inform him of his nomination. But, 
oP) 

‘What is it, monseigneur °” 

“I wish to see him beforehand ; if he be asugly as his name, | retract 

vat I have said.” 

“Your highness knows him, for you have already seen himat the Palais-. 

nyal ; nay, indeed, it was I who presented him to you.” 

“Ah, I remember now—not a bad-looking fellow.” 

“I knew you must have noticed him, monseigneur.” 

“Yes, yes, yes. You see, De Guiche, I do not wish that either my wife 

myself should have ugly faces before our eyes. My wife will have 

her maids of honour pretty ; I, all the gentlemen about me good-look- 

x, In this way, De Guiche, you see, that any children we may have will 

na good chance of being pretty, if my wife and myself have handsome 

odels before us.” 

“ Most powerfully argued, monseigneur,” said Manicamp, showing his 

proval by look and voice at the same time. 

As for De Guiche, he very probably did not find the argument so con- 

acing, for he merely signified his opinion by a gesture, which, moreover, 

hibited in a marked manner _ great indecision of mind on the subject. 

anicamp went off to inform Malicorne of the good news he had just 

arnt. De Guiche seemed very unwilling to take his departure for the 

irpose of dressing himself. Monsieur, singing, laughing, and admiring 

mself, passed away the time until the dinner-hour, in a frame of mind 

hich would have justified the proverb of “ Happy as a prince.” 


: 
: CHAPTER CXXXI. 
} STORY OF A DRYAD AND OF A NAIAD. 


very one had partaken of the banquet at the chateau, and had after- 
ards assumed their full court dresses. The usual hour for the repast 
as five o’clock. If we say, then, that the repast occupied an hour and 
1e toilette two hours, everybody was ready about eight o’clock in the 
vening. Towards eight o’clock, therefore, the guests began to arrive at 
[adame’s, for we have already intimated it was Madame who “ received” 
iat evening. And at Madame’s sozr¢ées no one failed to be present ; for 
ie evenings passed in her apartments had always that perfect charm 
bout them which the queen, that pious and excellent princess, had not 
een able to confer upon her 7éunions. For, unfortunately, one of the ad- 
antages of goodness of disposition, is, that it is far legs amusing than wit 
fan ill-natured character. And yet, let us hasten to add, that such a 
tyle of wit could not be applied to Madame, for her disposition of mind, 
aturally of the very highest order, comprised too much true generosity, 
30 many noble impulses and high-souled thoughts, to warrant her wit 
eing termed ill-natured. But Madame was endowed with a spirit of 


614 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


resistance—a gift very frequently fatal to its possessor, for it break 
where another would have bent; the result was that blows did not be- 
‘come deadened upon her as upon what might be termed the wadded 
feelings of Maria-Theresa. Her heart rebounded at each attack, and, there- 
fore, whenever she was attacked, even in a manner almost to stun her, 
she returned blow for blow to any one who might be imprudent enough to 
venture to tilt against her. Was this really maliciousness of disposition, 
or simply waywardness of character? We regard those rich and powerful 
natures as like the tree of knowledge, producing good and evil at the same 
time ; a double branch, always blooming and fruitful, of which those who 
wish to eat know how to detect the good fruit, and from which the worth- 
less and frivolous die who have eaten of it—a circumstance which is by no 
means to be regarded as a great misfortune. Madame, therefore, who had 
a well-digested plan in her mind of constituting herself the second, if not 
even the principal, queen of the court, rendered her receptions delightful 
to all, from the conversation, the opportunities of meeting, and the perfect 
liberty which she allowed to every one of making any remark he pleased, 
on the condition, however, that the remark was amusing or sensible. And 
it will hardly be believed that, by that means, there was less talking among 
the society Madame assembled together than elsewhere. Madame hated 
people who talked much, and took a very cruel revenge upon them, for she 
allowed them to talk. She disliked pretension, too, and never overlooked 
that defect, even in the king himself. It was more than a weakness of 
Monsieur, and the princess had undertaken the amazing task of curing 
him of it As for the rest, poets, wits, beautiful women, all were received 
by her with the air of a mistress superior to her slaves. Sufficiently medi« 
tative in her liveliest humours to make even poets meditate ; sufficiently 
pretty to dazzle by her attractions, even among the prettiest ; sufficiently 
witty for the most distinguished persons who were present to listen to her 
with pleasure—it will easily be believed that the 7észons which were held 
in Madame’s apartments must naturally have proved very attractive. All 
who were young flocked there ; and when the king himself happens to be 
young, everybody at court is so too. And so the older ladies of the court, 
the strong-minded women of the regency, or of the last reign, pouted and 
sulked at their ease ; but others only laughed at the fits of sulkiness in 
which these venerable individuals indulged, who had carried the love of 
authority so far as even to have taken the command of bodies of soldiers 
in the war of the Fronde, in order, as Madame asserted, not to lose their 
influence over men altogether. As eight o’clock struck, her royal highness 
entered the great drawing-room, accompanied by her ladies in attendance, 
and found several gentlemen belonging to the court already there, having 
been waiting for some minutes. Among those who had arrived before the 
hour fixed for the reception she looked around for the one who, she 
thought, ought to have been the first in attendance, but he was not there. 
However, almost at the very moment she had completed her investigation, 
Monsieur was announced. Monsieur looked splendid. All the precious 
stones and jewels of Cardinal Mazarin—those, of course, which that 
minister could not do otherwise than leave ; all the queen-mother’s jewels, 
as well as a few others belonging to his wife— Monsieur wore them all, and 
he was as dazzling as the sun. Behind him followed De Guiche, with 
hesitating steps, and with an air of contrition admirably assumed. De 
Guiche wore a costume of French-grey velvet, embroidered with silver, 
and trimmed with blue ribbons ; he wore, also, Mechlin lace, as rare and 
beautiful of its sort as were the jewels of Monsieur of theirs. The plume 


ze 
Wii 


A 
SASS 


ST 


ee 


a 


Ni 


tpt a2. 


‘* MONSIEUR WORE THEM ALL, AND HE WAS AS DAZZLING AS THE SUN.” 


LIBRARY a 
UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
URBANA 


STORY OF A DRYAD AND OF A NAIAD. 615 


'n his hat was red. Madame, too, wore several colours, and preferred red 
Jor hangings, grey for dresses, and blue for flowers. M. de Guiche, dressed 
as we have described, looked so handsome that he excited every one’s 
ybservation. An interesting pallor of complexion, a languid expression of 
the eyes, his white hands seen through the masses of lace which covered 
them, the melancholy expression of his mouth—it was only necessary, in- 
deed, to see M. de Guiche to admit that few men at the court of France 
could equal him. The consequence was that Monsieur, who was preten- 
tious enough to fancy he could eclipse a star even, if a star had adorned 
itself in a similar manner to himself, was, on the contrary, completely 
eclipsed in all imaginations, which are very silent judges certainly, but 
very positive and high in their judgment. Madame had looked at De 
Guiche slightly, but, slight as her look had been, it had brought a de- 
lightful colour to his face. In fact, Madame had fcund De Guiche so 
handsome and so admirably dressed, that she almost ceased regretting 
the royal conquest which she felt was on the point of escaping her. Her 
heart, therefore, sent the blood to her face. Monsieur approached her. 
He had not noticed the princess blush, orif he had seen it he was far from 
attributing it to its true cause. 

“ Madame,” he said, kissing his wife’s hand, “ there is some one present 
here who has fallen into disgrace—an unhappy exile, whom I would ven- 
ture to recommend to your kindness. Do not forget, I beg, that he is one 
of my best friends, and that your kind reception of him will please me 
greatly.” 

“ What exile—what disgraced person are you speaking of?” inquired 
Madame, looking all round, and not permitting her glance to rest more 
on the count than on the others. 

This was the moment to present De Guiche, and the prince drew aside 
and let De Guiche pass him, who, with a tolerably well-assumed awkward- 
ness of manner, approached Madame and made his reverence to her. 

“ What !” exclaimed Madame, as if she were greatly surprised, “is M. 
de Guiche the disgraced individual you speak of—the exile in question ”” 

_ “Yes, certainly,” returned the duke. 

“ Indeed,” said Madame, “he is almost the only person we see here,” 

“You are unjust, Madame,” said the prince. 

s¢] »»__-“ Certainly. Come, forgive the poor fellow.” 

“ Forgive him what? What have I to forgive M. de Guiche ?” 

“ Come, explain yourself, De Guiche. What do you wish to be for- 
given ?” inquired the prince. 

“ Alas ! her royal highness knows very well what it is,” replied the latter, 
in a hypocritical tone. 

“Come, come, give him your hand, Madame,” said Philip. 

“Tf it will give you any pleasure, Monsieur ;” and, with a movement of 
her eyes and shoulders, which it would be impossible to describe, Madame 
extended towards the young man her beautiful and perfumed hand, upon 
which he pressed his lips. It was evident that he did so for some little 
time, and that Madame did not withdraw her hand too quickly, for the 
duke added : 

“ De Guiche is not wickedly disposed, Madame ; so do not be afraid— 
he will not bite you.” 

A pretext was given in the gallery by the duke’s remark, which was not 
perhaps very laughable, for every one to laugh excessively. The situation 
was odd enough, and some kindly disposed persons had observed it. 
Monsieur was still enjoying the effect of his remark, when the king was 


616 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


announced. The appearance of the room at this moment was as follows! 
in the centre, before the fireplace, which was filled with flowers, Madame 
was standing up, with her maids of honour, formed in two wings, on 
either side of her, and around whom the butterflies of the court were 
fluttering. Several other groups were formed in the recesses of the 
windows, like soldiers stationed in their different towers who belong te 
the same garrison. From their respective places they could pick up the 
remarks which fell from the principal group. From one of these groups, 
the nearest to the fire-place, Malicorne, who had been at once raised to 
the dignity, through Manicamp and De Guiche, of the post of master of 
the apartments, and whose official costume had been ready for the last. 
two months, was brilliant with gold lace, and shone upon Montalais, stand 
ing on Madame’s extreme left, with all the fire of his eyes and all the 
splendour of his velvet. Madame was conversing with Mademoiselle de 
Chatillon and Mademoiselle de Crégny, who were next to her, and ad: 
dressed a few words to Monsieur, who drew aside as soon as the king was” 
announced, Mademoiselle de la Valliére, like Montalais, was on Madame’s - 
left hand, and the last but one on the line, Mademoiselle de Tonnay- 
Charente being on her right. She was stationed as certain bodies of troops” 
are, whose weakness is suspected, and who are placed between two expe- 
rienced regiments. Guarded in this manner by her two companions who 
had shared her adventure, La Valli¢re, whether from regret at Raoul’s de- 
parture, or still suffering from the emotion caused by recent events, which 
had begun to render her name familiar on the lips of the courtiers, La 
Valliere, we repeat, hid her eyes, red with weeping, behind her fan, and 
seemed to give the greatest attention to the remarks which Montalais and 
Athenais, alternately, whispered to her from timeto time. Assoon as the 
king’s name was announced a general movement took place in the apart-_ 
ment. Madame, in her character as hostess, rose to receive the royal 
visitor ; but as she rose, notwithstanding her pre-occupation of mind, she 
glanced hastily towards her right; -her glance, which the presumptuous De 
Guiche regarded as intended for himself, rested, as it swept over the whole. 
circle, upon La Valli¢re, whose warm blush and restless emotion it imme- 
diately perceived. | 
The king advanced to the middle of the group, which had now. 
become a general one, by a movement which took place from the circum- 
ference to the centre. Every head bowed low before his majesty, the 
Jadies bending like frail and magnificent lilies before the king Aquilio. 
There was nothing very severe, we will even say, nothing very royal, that 
evening about the king, except, however, his youth and good looks. He 
wore an air of animated joyousness and good humour which set all imagi- 
nations at work, and, thereupon, all present promised themselves a delight- 
ful evening, for no other reason than from having remarked the desire 
which his majesty had to amuse himself in Madame’s apartments. If 
there was any one in particular whose high spirits and good humour could 
equal the king’s, it was M. de Saint-Aignan, who was dressed in a rose- 
coloured costume, with face and ribbons of the same cclour, and, in addi- 
tion, particularly rose-coloured in his ideas, for that evening M. de Saint- 
Aignan was prolific in ideas. The circumstance which had given a new 
expansion to the numerous ideas germinating in his fertile brain was, that 
he had just perceived that Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente was, like him- 
self, dressed in rose-colour. We would not wish to say, however, that the 
wily courtier had not known beforehand that the beautiful Athenais was to 
wear that particular colour ; for he very well knew the art of unlocking the 


STORY OF A DRYAD AND OF A NATAD. 617 


ps o£ 3 dressmaker or ladies’-maid as to her mistress’s intentions. He 
ast as many assassinating glances at Mademoiselle Athenais as he had 
‘ows of ribbon on his stockings and his doublet ; in other words, he dis- 
harged an immense number. The king having paid Madame the cus- 
omary compliments, and Madame having requested him to be seated, the 
ircle was immediately formed. Louis inquired of Monsieur the particu- 
ars of the day’s bathing ; and stated, looking at the ladies present while 
ie spoke, that certain poets were engaged turning into verse the enchant- 
ag diversion of the baths of Valvins, and that one of them particularly, 
4. Loret, seemed to have been entrusted with the confidence of some 
vater-nymph, as he had in his verses recounted many circumstances that 
Were actually true—at which remark more than one lady present felt her- 
elf bound to blush. The king at this moment took the opportunity of 
ooking round him more leisurely ; Montalais was the only one who did 
1ot blush sufficiently to prevent her looking at the king, and she saw him 
ix his eyes most devouringly upon Mademoiselle de la Vallitre. This 
indaunted maid of honour, Mademoiselle de Montalais, be it understood, 
orced the king to lower his gaze, and so saved Louise dela Valli¢re from a 
ympathetic warmth of feeling which this gaze might possibly have con- 
veyed. Louis was appropriated by Madame, who overwhelmed him with 
nquiries, and no one in the world knew how to ask questions better than 
the did. He tried, however, to render the conversation general, and, with 
he view of effecting this, he redoubled his attention and devotion to 
ver. Madame coveted complimentary remarks, and determined to procure 
hem at any cost, she addressed herself to the king, saying : 

“ Sire, your majesty, who is aware of everything which occurs in your 
<ingdom, ought to know beforehand the verses confided to M. Loret by 
his nymph: will your majesty kindly communicate them to us ?” 

* Madame,” replied the king, with perfect grace of manner, “I dare not 
— you, personally, might be in no little degree confused at having to listen 
‘0 certain details but Saint-Aignan tells a story well, and hasa perfect 
‘ecollection of the verses ; if he does not remember them, he will invent. 
{ can certify him to be almost a poet himself.” Saint-Aignan, thus 
yrought prominently forward, was compelled to introduce himself as 
idvantageously as possible. Unfortunately, however, for Madame, he 
hought of the own personal affairs only ; in other words, instead of paying 
Madame the compliments she so much desired and relished, his mind was 
ixed upon making as much display as possible of his own good fortune. 
Again glancing, therefore, for the hundredth time, at the beautiful Athe- 
aais, who thoroughly carried into practice her previous evening’s theory of 
aot even deigning to look at her adorer, he said : 

“ Your majesty will perhaps pardon me for having too indifferently re- 
membered the verses which the nymph dictated to Loret ; but, if the king 
has not retained any recollection of them, what could I possibly remember?” 

Madame did not receive this shortcoming of the courtier very favour- 

bly. 

eA} madame,” added Saint-Aignan, “at present it is no longer a 
question what the water-nymphs have to say ; and one would almost be 
tempted to believe that nothing of any interest now occurs in those liquid 
realms. It is upon the earth, madame, where important events happen. 
Ah ! madame, upon the earth how many tales are there full of ——” 

“Well,” said Madame, “and what is taking place upon the earth?” 

“That question must be asked of the Dryads,” replied the comte ; “ the 
Dryads inhabit the forests, as your royal highness is aware,” 


618 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“1 am aware, also, that they are naturally very talkative, Monsieur dé 
Saint-Aignan.” F 

“Such is the case, madame; but when they say such delightful things, 1 
would be ungracious to accuse them of being too talkative.” & 

“Do they talk so delightfully, then ?” inquired the princess, indifferently, 
“ Really, Monsieur de Saint-Aignan, you excite my curiosity; and, if T 
were the king, I would require you immediately to tell us what the delight. 
ful things are which these Dryads have been saying, since you alone seem 
to understand their language.” 

“Tam perfectly at his majesty’s orders, madame, in that respect,” re 
plied the comte, quickly. 

“What a fortunate fellow this Saint-Aignan is, to understand the la 1 
guage of the Dryads !” said Monsieur. A 
‘“T understand it perfectly, monseigneur, as I do my own language.” 

“ Tell us all about them, then,” said Madame. i 

The king felt embarrassed; for his confidant was, in all probability, 
about to embark in a difficult matter. He felt that it would be so, from 
the general attention excited by Saint-Aignan’s preamble, and aroused tqq 
by Madame’s peculiar manner. The most reserved of those who were 
present seemed ready to devour every syllable the comte was about to 
pronounce. They coughed, drew closer together, looked curiously at some 
of the maids of honour, who, in order to support with greater propriety, 
or with more steadiness, the fixity of the inquisitorial looks bent upon 
them, adjusted their fans accordingly, and assumed the bearing of a duel- 
list who is about to be exposed to his adversary’s fire. At this epoch, 
the fashion of ingeniously constructed conversations, and hazardously- 
dangerous recitals, so prevailed, that, where, in modern times, a whole 
company assembled in a drawing-room would begin to suspect some scan- 
dal, or disclosure, or tragic event, and would hurry away in dismay, 
Madame’s guests quietly settled themselves in their places, in order not to 
lose a word or gesture of the comedy composed by Monsieur de Saint- 
Aignan for their benefit, and the termination of which, whatever the style 
and the plot might be, must, asa matter of course, be marked by the most 
perfect propriety. The comte was known as a man of extreme refine- 
ment, and an admirable narrator. He courageously began, then, amidst 
a profound silence, which would have been formidable for any one but 
himself :~-“ Madame, by the king’s permission, I address myself, in the 
first place, to your royal highness, since you admit yourself to be the pets 
son present possessing the greatest curiosity. I have the honou_ theres 
fore, to inform your royal highness that the Dryad more particularly ins 
habits the hollows of oaks ; and, as Dryads are mythological creatures of 
great beauty, they inhabit the most beautiful trees, in other words, the 
largest to be found.” | 

At this exordium, which recalled, under a transparent veil, the cele= 
brated story of the royal oak, which had played so important a part in the 


last evening, so many hearts began to beat, both from joy and uneasiness, 
that, if Saint-Aignan had not had a good and sonorous voice, their throb- 
bings might have been heard above the sound of his voice. | 

“There must surely be Dryads at Fontainebleau, then,” said Madame, 
in a perfectly calm voice ; “‘for I have never, in all my life, seen finer 
oaks than in the royal park.” And as she spoke, she directed towards De 
Guiche a look of which he had no reason to complain, as he had of the 
one that preceded it ; and which, as we have already mentioned, had re- 
served a certain amount of indefiniteness most painful for so loving a heart 


as 1S, oe 


STORY OF A DRYAD AND OF A NATAL, 619 


' © Precisely, madame, it is of Fontainebleau that I was about to speak to 
rour royal highness,” said Saint-Aignan ; “for the Dryad whose story is 
mgaging our attention lives in the park belonging to the chateau of his 
najesty.” The affair was fairly embarked on ; the action was begun, and 
‘t was no longer possible for auditory or narrator to draw back. 

_ “It will be worth listening to,” said Madame ; “for the story not only 
appears to me to have all the interest of a national incident, but still more, 
seems to be a circumstance of very recent occurrence.” 

“T ought to begin by the beginning,” said the comte. “In the first 
place, then, there lived at Fontainebleau, in a cottage of modest and un- 
assuming appearance, two shepherds. The one was the shepherd Tyrcis, 
the owner of extensive domains transmitted to him from his parents, by 
right of inheritance. Tyrcis was young and handsome, and, from his 
many qualifications, he might be pronounced to be the first and foremost 
among the shepherds in the whole country ; one might even boldly say he 
was the king of them.” A subdued murmur of approbation encouraged 
the narrator, who continued :—“ His strength equals his courage ; no one 
displays greater address in hunting wild beasts, nor greater wisdom in 
matters where judgment is required. Whenever he mounts and exercises 
his horse in thé beautiful plains of his inheritance, or whenever he joins 
with the shépherds who owe him allegiance, in different games of skill 
and strength, one might say that it is the god Mars darting his lance in 
the plains of Thrace, or, even better, that it was Apollo himself, the god 
of day, radiant upon earth, bearing his flaming darts in his hand.” Every 
one understood that this allegorical portrait of the king was not the worst 
exordium that the narrator could have chosen ; and it consequently did 
not fail to produce its effect, either upon those who, from duty or inclina- 
tion, applauded it to the very echo, or upon the king himself, to whom 
flattery was very agreeable when delicately conveyed, and whom, indeed, 
it did not always displease, even when it was a little too broad. Saint- 
Aignan then continued :—‘It is not in games of glory only, ladies, that the 
shepherd Tyrcis had acquired that reputation by which he was regarded 
as the king of shepherds.” 

“Of the shepherds of Fontainebleau,” said the king, smilingly, to 
Madame. 

“Oh !” exclaimed Madame, “Fontainebleau is selected arbitrarily by 
the poet ; but 1 should say, of the shepherds of the whole world.” The 
king forgot his part of a passive auditor, and bowed. 

“It was,” pursued Saint-Aignan, amidst a flattering murmur of applause, 
“it was with ladies fair especially that the qualities of this king of the 
shepherds were most prominently displayed. He was a shepherd with a 
mind as refined as his heart was pure ; he can pay a compliment with a 
charm of manner whose fascination it is impossible to resist ; and in his 
attachments he is so discreet, that his beautiful and happy conquests may 
regard their lot as more than enviable. Never a syllable of disclosure, 
never a moment’s forgetfulness. Whoever has seen and heard Tyrcis 
must love him ; whoever loves and is beloved by him, has indeed found 
happiness.” Saint-Aignan here paused ; he was enjoying the pleasures of 
his own compliments ; and the portrait he had drawn, however grotesquely 
inflated it might be, had found favour in certain ears, for whom the per- 
fections of the shepherd did not seem to have been exaggerated. Madame 
begged the orator to continue. “Tyrcis,” said the comte, “had a faithful 
companion, or rather a devoted servant, whose name was——Amyntas.” 

“ Ah !” said Madame, archly, “now for the portrait of Amyntas ; you 
are such an excellent painter, Monsieur de Saint-Aignan.” 


620 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, , . 


“ Madame-——” 

“Oh! comte, do not, I entreat you, sacrifice poor Amyntas ; I shoul 
never forgive you.” : 

‘““Madame, Amyntas is of too humble a position, particularly beside 
Tyrcis, for his person to be honoured by a parallel. There are certain 
friends who resemble those followers of ancient times, who caused them- 
selves to be buried alive at their masters’ feet. Amyntas’s place, too, is 
at the feet of Tyrcis; he cares for no other ; and if, sometimes, the illus- 
trious hero——” ; 

“Illustrious shepherd, do you mean?” said Madame, pretending to 
correct M. de Saint-Aignan. j 

“Your royal highness is right ; I was mistaken,” returned the courtier ; 
“if, I say, the shepherd Tyrcis deigns occasionally to call Amyntas his” 
friend, and to open his heart to him, it is an unparalleled favour, which 
the latter regards as the most unbounded felicity.” ; 

“All that you say,” interrupted Madame, “establishes the extreme de- 
votion of Amyntas to Tyrcis, but does not furnish us with the portrait of 
Amyntas. Comte, do not flatter him, if you like ; but describe him to us, 
I will have Amyntas’s portrait.” Saint-Aignan obeyed, after having bowed 
profoundly towards his majesty’s sister-in-law. | 

‘“‘ Amyntas,” he said, ‘‘is somewhat older than Tyrcis ; he is not an ill- 
favoured shepherd ; it is even said that the muses condescended to smile 
upon him at his birth, even as Hebe smiled upon youth. He is not am- 
bitious of display, but he is ambitious of being loved; and he might not, 
perhaps, be found unworthy of it, if he were only sufficiently well known,” 

This latter paragraph, strengthened by a very killing glance, was directed 
straight to Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, who received them both 
unmoved. But the modesty and tact of the allusion had produced a good 
effect ; Amyntas reaped the benefit of it in the applause bestowed on 
him : Tyrcis’s head had even given the signal for it by a consenting bow, 
full of good feeling. 

“One evening,” continued Saint-Aignan, “Tyrcis and Amyntas were 
walking together in the forest, talking of their love disappointments. Do 
not forget, ladies, that the story of the Dryad is now beginning, otherwise 
it would be easy to tell you what Tyrcis and Amyntas, the two most dis- 
creet shepherds of the whole earth, were talking about. They reached 
the thickest part of the forest, for the purpose of being quite alone, and 
of confiding their troubles more freely to each other, when suddenly the 
sound of voices struck upon their ears.” ‘ 

“Ah, ah !” said those who surrounded the narrator. “ Nothing can be 
more interesting than this.” ; 

At this point, Madame, like a vigilant general inspecting his army, 
glanced at Montalais and Tonnay-Charente, who could not help wincing 
at it as they drew themselves up. 

“These harmonious voices,” resumed Saint-Aignan, “were those of 
certain shepherdesses, who had been likewise desirous of enjoying the 
coolness of the shade, and who, knowing the isolated and almost unap- 
proachable situation of the place, had betaken themselves there to 
interchange their ideas upon——” A loud burst of laughter occasioned 
by this remark of Saint-Aignan, and an imperceptible smile of the king, 
as he looked at Tonnay-Charente, followed this sally. 

“The Dryad affirms positively,” continued Saint-Aignan, “that the 
shepherdesses were three in number, and that all three were young and 
beautiful.” | 


|Z STORY OF A DRYAD AND OF A NAIAD. 6at 


st‘ What were their names ?” said Madame quietly. 

_ “Their names !” said Saint-Aignan, who hesitated from the feat or com- 
mitting an indiscretion. 

~ “Of course ; you called your shepherds Tyrcis and Amyntas, give your 
shepherdesses names in a similar manner.” 

~ “Oh! Madame, I am not an inventor ; I relate simply what took place 
as the Dryad related it to me.” 

“What did your Dryad, then, call these shepherdesses? You have a 
very treacherous memory, I fear. This Dryad must have fallen out with 
the goddess Mnemosyne.” 

“These shepherdesses, Madame. Pray remember that it is a crime to 
betray a woman’s name.” 

“ From which a woman absolves you, comte, on condition that you will 
reveal the names of the shepherdesses.” 

“ Their names were Phillis, Amaryllis, and Galatea.” 

“Very well ; they have not lost by the delay,” said Madame, “and now 
we have three charming names. But now for their portraits.” 

Saint-Aignan again madea slight movement. 

“ Nay, comte, let us proceed in due order,” returned Madame. “ Ought 
we not, sire, to have the portraits of the shepherdesses ?” 

The king, who expected this determined perseverance, and who began 
to feel some uneasiness, did not think it safe to provoke so dangerous an 
interrogator. He thought, too, that Saint-Aignan, in drawing the portraits, 
would find a means of insinuating some flattering allusions, which would 
be agreeable to the ears of one whom his majesty was interested in pleas- 
ing. It was with this hope and with this fear that Louis authorised 
Saint-Aignan tosketch the portraits of the shepherdesses, Phillis, Amaryllis, 
and Galatea. 

“Very well, then, be it so,” said Saint-Aignan, like a man who has made 
up his mind, and he began. 


CHAPTER CXXXILI. 
CONCLUSION OF THE STORY OF A NAIAD AND OF A DRYAD. 


PHILLIS,” said Saint-Aignan, with a glance of defiance at Montalais, 
just as a fencing-master would give who invites an antagonist worthy of 
him to place himself on his guard, “ Phillis is neither fair nor dark, neither 
tall nor short, neither too grave nor too gay ; though but a shepherdess, 
she is as witty as a princess, and as coquettish as the most finished 
coquette that ever lived. Nothing can equal her excellent vision. Her 
heart yearns for everything her gaze embraces. She is like a bird, which 
always warbling, at one moment skims along the ground, at the next rises 
fluttering, in pursuit of a butterfly, then rests itself upon the topmost 
branch of a tree, where it defies the bird-catchers either to come and seize 
it, or to entrap it in their nets.” The portrait bore such a strong resem- 
blance to Montalais, that all eyes were directed towards her ; she, however, 
with her head raised, and with a steady unmoved look, listened to Saint- 
Aignan, as if he were speaking of some one who was a complete stranger 
to her. 
“Ts that all, Monsieur de Saint-Aignan ?” inquired the princess. 

* ¢ Oh! your royal highness, the portrait is a mere sketch, and many more 
additions could be made, but I fear wearying your royal highness’s pa- 
tience, or offending the modesty of the shepherdess, and I shall therefore 
pass on to her companion, Amaryllis.” 


me 
Led 


622 THE VICOMTE DE BRACELONNE, 


“Very well,” said Madame, “pass on to Amaryllis, Monsieur de Saint 
Aignan, we are all attention.” ; 
“ Amaryllis is the eldest of the three, and yet,” Saint- Aignan hastene 
to add, ‘“‘ this advanced age does not reach twenty years.” 
Mademoiselle de Tonnay- Charente, who had slightly knitted her bro 
at the commencement of the description, unbent them with a smile. . 
“She is tall, with an immense q':antity of hair, which she fastens in th 
manner of the Grecian statues ; her walk is full of majesty, her attitud 
haughty ; she has the air, therefore, rather of a goddess than of a mere 
mortal, and, among the goddesses, she most resembles Diana the hunt- 
ress’; with this sole difference, however, that the cruel shepherdess, havin 
stolen the quiver of young love, while poor Cupid was sleeping in a havi 
of roses, instead of directing her arrows against the inhabitants of ie 
forest, discharges them most “pitilessly against all the poor shepherds wht > 
pass within reach of her bow and of her « eyes.” c 
“Oh! what a wicked shepherdess !’ said Madame. “ She may some 
day wound herself with one of those arrows she discharges, as you sayy 
so mercilessly on all sides.” 
“Tt is the hope of all the shepherds in general,” said Saint-Aignan. 
“And that of the shepherd Amyntas in particular, | suppose ?” said 
Madame. 
“The shepherd Amyntas is so timid,” said Saint-Aignan, with thé most 
modest air he could assume, “that if he cherishes such a hope as that, no 
one has ever known anything about it, for he conceals it in the very depth : 
of hisheart.” A flattering murmur of applause g greeted the narrator’s pro- 
fession of faith on the part of the shepherd. 
“And Galatea ?” inquired Madame. “I am impatient to see a hand 5 
skilful as yours continue the portrait where Virgil left it, and finish it be= 
fore our eyes.’ : 
“ Madame,” said Saint-Aignan, “I am indeed but a very poor poet beside 
the great Virgil. Still, encouraged by your desire, I will do my best.” 
Saint- Aignan extended his foot and his hand, and thus began :—“ White 
as milk, she casts upon the breeze the perfume of her fair hair tinged with 
golden ‘hues, as are the ears of corn. One is tempted to inquire if she 1 
not the beautiful Europa, who inspired Jupiter with a tender passion as 
she played with her companions in the flower bespangled meadows, 
From her beautiful eyes, blue as the azure heavens in the brightest sum= 
mer day, emanates a tender light, which reverie nurtures, and which love 
dispenses. When she frowns, or bends her looks towards the ground, the 
sun is veiled in token of mourning. When she smiles, on the contrary, 
nature resumes her joyousness, and the birds, which had for a moment 
been silenced, recommence their songs amid the leafy covert of the trees. 
Galatea,” said Saint- -Aignan, in conclusion, “ is worthy of the.admiration of 
the whole world ; andif she should ever bestow her heart upon another, 
happy will that man be to whom she consecrates her first affections.” 
Madame, who had attentively listened to the portrait Saint-Aignan had 
drawn, as indeed, had all the others too, contented herself by marking her 
approbation of the most poetic passages by occasional inclinations of her 
head ; but it was impossible to say if these marks of assent had been ac- 
corded to the ability of the narrator or to the resemblance of the portrait. 
The consequence, therefore, was, that as Madame did not openly exhibit 
any approbation, no one felt authorised to applaud, not even Monsieur, 
who secretly thought that Saint-Aignan dwelt too much upon the portraits 
of the shepherdesses, and had somewhat slightingly passed over hg por: 


STORY OF A NALAD-AND OF A DRYAD. 624 


raits of the shepherds. The whole assembly seemed suddenly chilled. 
3aint-Aignan who had exhausted his rhetorical skill and his artist’s brush 
n sketching the portrait of Galatea, and who, after the favour with which 
iis other descriptions had been received, already imagined he could hear 
he loud applause for this last one, was himself more disappointed than 
he king and the rest of the company. A moment’s silence followed, which 
vas at last broken by Madame. 

_ “Well, sire,” she inquired, “what is your majesty’s opinion of these 
three portraits °” 

The king, who wished to relieve Saint-Aignan’s embarrassment without 
compromising himself, replied, ‘‘ Why, Amaryllis, in my opinion, is beau- 
“iful.” 

“For my part,” said Monsieur, “I prefer Phillis ; she is a capital girl, 
al rather a good-sort-of-fellow of anymph.” 
~ A gentle laugh followed, and this time the looks were so direct, that 
Montalais felt herself blushing almost scarlet. 

“Well,” resumed Madame, “ what were those shepherdesses saying to 
each other ?” 

Saint-Aignan, however, whose vanity had been wounded, did not feel 
himself in a position to sustain an attack of new and refreshed troops, and 
‘merely said, ‘‘ Madame, the shepherdesses were confiding to one another 
their little preferences.” 

_ “Nay, nay! Monsieur de Saint-Aignan, you are a perfect stream of pas- 
toral poesy,” said Madame, with an amiable smile, which somewhat com- 
forted the narrator. 
_ © They confessed that love is a great peril, but that the absence of love 
is the heart’s sentence of death.” 

_ “What was the conclusion they came to?” inquired Madame, 

“They came to the conclusion that love was necessary.” 

“Very good! Did they lay down any conditions 2” 

“That of choice, simply,” said Saint-Aignan. “I ought even to add— 
‘remember it is the Dryad who is speaking—that one of the shepherdesses, 
Amaryllis, I believe, was completely opposed to the necessity of loving, 
‘and yet she did not positively deny that she had allowed the image of a 
‘certain shepherd to take refuge in her heart.” 

“Was it Amyntas or Tyrcis ?” 

“ Amyntas, Madame,” said Saint-Aignan, modestly. “ But Galatea, the 
gentle and soft-eyed Galatea, immediately replied, that neither Amyntas 
‘nor Alphesibceus, nor Tityrus, nor indeed any of the handsomest shep- 
‘herds of the country, were to be compared to Tyrcis ; that Tyrcis, was as 
superior to all other men, as the oak to all other trees, as the lily in its 
majesty to allother flowers. She drew even sucha portait of Tyrcis that 
Tyrcis himself, who was listening, must have felt truly flattered at it, not- 
withstanding his rank and position. Thus Tyrcis and Amyntas had been 
distinguished by Phillis and Galatea ; and thus had the secrets of two 
hearts been revealed beneath the shades of evening, and amidthe recesses 
cf the woods. Such, Madame, is what the Dryad related to me ; she who 
knows all that takes place in the hollows of oaks and in grassy dells ; she 
who knows the loves of the birds, and all they wish to convey by their 
songs; she who understands, in fact, the language of the wind among the 
branches, the humming of the insects with their golden and emerald wings 
in the corolla of the wild flowers ; it was she who related the particulars 
to me, and I have repeated them.” 

“ And now you have finished, Monsieur de Saint-Aignan, have you 
not?” said Madame, with a smile which made the king tremble, 


623. THR VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“ Quite finished,” replied Saint-Aignan, “and only but too happy if 
have been able to amuse your royal highness for a few moments.” ; 
“ Moments which have been too brief,” replied the princess, “ for yo 
have related most admirably all you know ; ; but my dear Monsieur di 
Saint-Aignan, you have been unfortunate enough to obtain your inform 
tion from one Dryad only, I believe ?” 

“Ves, Madame, only from one, I confess.” 

“The fact was, that you passed by a little Naiad, who pretended to 
know nothing at all, and yet knew a great deal more than your Dryad, my 
dear comte.” | 

“A Naiad!” repeated several voices, who began to suspect that the 
story had a continuation. : 

“Of course ; close beside the oak you are speaking of, which, if I arm 
not mistaken, is called the royal oak——is it not so, Monsieur de Saint- 
Aignan ?” Saint- Aignan and the king exchanged glances. | 

“Yes, Madame,” the former replied. | 

e Well, close beside the oak there is a pretty little spring, which runs 
mur muringly on over the pebbles, amidst the forget-me-nots and daisies.” 

“TI believe you are correct,” said the king, with some uneasiness, and 
listening with some anxiety to his sister- in- law’s narrative. 

“Oh! there is one, I can assure you,” said Madame ; “and the proof 
of it is, that the Naiad who resides in that little stream, stopped me as T 
was about to cross.’ “Bah !” said Saint- -Aignan. | 

“Ves, indeed,” continued the princess, “and she did so in order to com: 
municate to me many particulars which Monsieur de Saint-Aignan omitted 
in his recital.” 

“Pray relate them yourself,” said Monsieur, “you can relate stories in 
such a charming manner.” ‘The princess bowed ‘at the conjugal compli- 
ment paid her. 

“I do not possess the poetical powers of the comte, nor ae ability to 
bring out all the details.” 

“You will not be listened to with less interest on that account,” said the 
king, who already perceived that something hostile was intended in his 
sister-in-law’s story. 

“I speak, too,” continued Madame, “in the name of that poor little 
Naiad, who is indeed the most charming creature I ever met. Moreover 
she laughed so heartily while she was telling me her story, that, in pur- 
suance of that medical axiom that laughter is contagious, I ask permission 
to laugh a little myself when I recollect her words.” 

The king and Saint-Aignan, who noticed spreading over many of the 
faces present a commencement of the laughter which Madame announced, 
finished by looking at each other, as if asking themselves whether there 
was not some little conspiracy concealed beneath her words. But Madame 
was determined to turn the knife in the wound over and over again ; she 
therefore resumed with an air of the most perfect innocence, in other 
words, with the most dangerous of all her airs :—“ Well, then, I passed 
that way,” she said, “and as I found beneath my steps many fresh flowers 
newly blown, no doubt Phillis, Amaryllis, Galatea, and all your shep- 
herdesses had passed the same way before me.’ 

The king bit his lips, for the recital was becoming more and more 
threatening. “My little Naiad,” continued Madame, “ was murmuring 
her little song in the bed of her rivulet ; as I perceived that she accosted 
me by touching the bottom of my dress, I did not think of receiving her 
advances ungraciously, and more particularly so, since, after all, a divinity, 


may 


TORY OF A NAIAD AND OF A DRYAD. 625 


* 

aven though she be of a second grade, is always of greater importance than 
a mortal, though a princess. 1, thereupon, accosted the N ajiad ; bursting 
into a laughter, this is what she said to me: 

_ “Fancy, princess... .. You understand, sire, it is the Naiad who is 
speaking.” 

The king bowed assentingly ; and Madame continued :—*‘ Fancy, 
princess, the banks of my little stream have just witnessed a most amusing 
scene. Two shepherds, full of curiosity, even indiscreetly so, have allowed 
themselves to be mystified in a most amusing manner by three nymphs, 
or three shepherdesses.’ I beg your pardon, but I do not now remember 
if it were a nymph or a shepherdess she said; but it does not much 
matter, so we will continue.” 

The king, at this opening, coloured visibly, and Saint-Aignan, completely 
losing countenance, began to open his eyes in the greatest possible anxiety. 
“The two shepherds, pursued my nymph, still laughing, ‘followed in 
the wake of the three young ladies,—no, I mean, of the three nymphs ; 
forgive me, I ought to say, of the three shepherdesses.’ It is not always 
wise to do that, for it may be awkward for those who are followed. I 
appeal to all the ladies present, and not one of them, I am sure, will con- 
‘tradict me.” 

_ The king, who was much disturbed by what he suspected was about to 
‘follow, signified his assent by a gesture. 

“But? continued the Naiad, ‘the shepherdesses had noticed Tyrcis 
and Amyntas gliding into the wood, and, by the light of the moon, they 
had recognised them through the grove of trees.’ Ah, you laugh !” inter- 
rupted Madame ; “ wait, wait, you are not yet at the end.” 

The king turned pale; Saint-Aignan wiped his forehead, which was 
‘bedewed with perspiration. Among the groups of ladies present could be 
heard smothered laughter and stealthy whispers. 

“¢The shepherdesses, I was saying, noticing how indiscreet the two 
shepherds were, proceeded to sit down at the foot of the royal oak ; and 
when they perceived that their indiscreet listeners were sufficiently near, 
so that not a syllable of what they might say could be lost, they addressed 
towards them very innocently, in the most innocent manner in the world 
indeed, a passionate declaration, which from the vanity natural to all men, 
and even to the most sentimental of shepherds, seemed to the two listeners 
as sweet as honey.’” 

The king, at these words, which the assembly was unable to hear with- 
out laughing, could not restrain a flash of anger darting from his eyes. As 
for Saint-Aignan, he let his head fall upon his breast, and concealed, under 
a bitter laugh, the extreme annoyance he felt. 

“ Oh,” said the king, drawing himself up to his full height, “ upon my 
word, that is a most amusing jest, certainly ; but, really and truly, are you 
gure you quite understood the language of the Naiads P” 

“The comte, sire, pretends to have perfectly understood that of the 
Dryads,” retorted Madame, eagerly. 

“No doubt,” said the king ; “but you know the comte has the weakness 
to aspire to become a member of the Academy, so that, with this object in 
view, he has learnt all sorts of things of which very happily you are ignor- 
ant ; and it might possibly happen that the language of the Nymph of the 
Waters might be among the number of things which you have not studied.* 

“ Of course, sire,” replied Madame, “for facts of that nature one does 
not altogether rely upon one’s self alone ; a woman’s ear is not infallible, 
so says Saint Augustin ; and J, therefore, wished to satisfy myself by other 
40 


626 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


opinions besides my own, and as my Naiad, who, in her character of 
goddess, is polyglot,—is not that the expression, M. de Saint-Aignan ” 

“‘ Ves,” said the latter, quite out of countenance. ‘ Ei 

“ Well,” continued the princess, “as my Naiad, who, in her character 
of a goddess, had, at first, spoken to me in English, I feared, as you sug- 
gest, that I might have misunderstood her, and | requested Mesdemoisellés 
de Montalais, De Tonnay-Charente, and De la Valliére, to come to me, 
begging my Naiad to repeat to me in the French language the recital she 
had already communicated to me in English.” 

“ And did she do so?” inquired the king. | 

“Oh, she is the most polite divinity that exists! Yes, sire, she did so; 
so that no doubt whatever remains on the subject. Is it not so, young 
ladies ?” said the princess, turning towards the left of her army ; “ did not 
the Naiad say precisely what I have related, and have I, in any one par- 
ticular, exceeded the truth, Phillis? I beg your pardon, I mean Made- 
moiselle Aure de Montalais ?” 

“Precisely as you have stated, Madame,” articulated Mademoiselle de 
Montalais, very distinctly. 

“Ts it true, Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente ?” 

“The perfect truth,” replied Athenais, in a voice quite as firm, but yet 
not so distinct. “ And you, La Valliére ?’ asked Madame. 

The poor girl felt the king’s ardent look fixed upon her,—she dared not 
deny it, she dared not tella falsehood,and bowed her head simply in token 
of assent. Her head, however, was not raised again, half-chilled as she 
was by a coldness more bitter than that of death. This triple testimony 
overwhelmed the king. As for Saint-Aignan, he did not even attempt to 
dissemble his despair, and, hardly knowing what he said; he stammered 
out, ‘An excellent jest ! admirably played !” €. 

“A just punishment for curiosity,” said the king, in a hoarse voice. “Oh! 
who would think, after the chastisement that Tyrcis and Amyntas had 
suffered, of endeavouring to surprise what is passing in the heart of shep- 
herdesses? Assuredly, I shall not for one; and you, gentlemen ?” bs 

“Nor I! nor I!” repeated, in a chorus, the group of courtiers. ey 

Madame was filled with triumph at the king’s annoyance ; and was full 
of delight, thinking that her story had been, or was to be, the termina- 
tion of the whole matter. As for Monsieur, who had laughed at the two 
stories without comprehending anything about them, he turned towards 
De Guiche, and said to him, “ Well, comte, you say nothing ; can you 
not find something to say ? Do you pity M. Tyrcis and M. Amyntas, for 
instance ?” 

“I pity them with all my soul,” replied De Guiche ; “for in very truth, 
love is so sweet a fancy, that to lose it, fancy though it may be, is to lose 
more than life itself. If, therefore, these two shepherds thought them- 
selves beloved,—if they were happy in that idea, and if, instead of that 
happiness, they meet with not only that empty void which resembles 
death, but jeers and jests at that love, which is worse than a thousand 
deaths,—in that case, I say that Tyrcis and Amyntas are the two most 
unhappy men I know.” ; : 

“ And you are right, too, Monsieur de Guiche,” said the king ; “for, in 
fact, the death we speak of is a very hard return for a little curiosity.” 

“That is as much as to say, then, that the story of my Naiad has dis- 
pleased the king ?” asked Madame, innocently. 

“Nay, Madame, undeceive yourself,” said Louis, taking the princess by 
the hand ; “your Naiad, on the contrary, has pleased me, and the more 


STORY OF A NAIAD AND OF A DRYAD. 624 


), because she has been more truthful, and because her tale, I ought to 
dd. is confirmed by the testimony of unimpeachable witnesses.” 

These words fell upon La Vallicre accompanied by a look that no one, 
“om Socrates to Montaigne, could have exactly defined. The look and 
je king’s remark succeeded in overpowering the unhappy gitl, who, 
‘ith her head upon Montalais’s shoulder, seemed to have fainted away. 
‘he king rose, without remarking this circumstance, of which no one, 
j0reover, took any notice, and, contrary to his usual custom, for generally 
e remained late in Madame’s apartments, he took his leave, and retired 
» his own side of the palace. Saint-Aignan followed him, leaving the 
ooms in as great a state of despair as he had entered them in a state of 
lelight. Mademoiselle de Tonnay Charente, less sensitive than La Valliére, 
yas not much frightened, and did not faint. However, the last look of 


jaint-Aignan had hardly been so majestic as the last look of the king. 


CHAPTER CXXXIII. 
RQYAL PSYCHOLOGY. 


THE king returned to his apartments with hurried steps. The reason he 
walked as fast as he did, was probably to avoid tottering in his gait. 
He seemed to leave behind him as he went along a trace of a mysterious 
sorrow. This gaiety of manner, which every one had remarked in him on 
his arrival, and which they had been delighted to perceive, had not per- 
haps been understood in its true sense ; but his stormy departure, his dis- 
ordered countenance, all knew, or at least thought they could tell the 
reason of. Madame’s levity of manner, her somewhat bitter jests,—bitter 
for persons of a sensitive disposition, and particularly for one of the king’s 
character : the great resemblance which naturally existed between the 
king and an ordinary mortal, were among the reasons assigned for the 
precipitate and unexpected departure of his majesty. Madame, keen- 
sighted enough in other respects, did not, however, at first see anything 
extraordinary in it. It was quite sufficient for her to have inflicted some 
slight wound upon the vanity or self-esteem of one, who, so soon for- 
getting the engagements he had contracted, seemed to have undertaken 
to disdain, without cause, the noblest and highest prizes. It was not 
an unimportant matter for Madame, in the present position of affairs, 
to let the king perceive the difference which existed betveen the 
bestowal of his affections on one in a high station, and the running 
after some passing fancy, like a youth fresh from the provinces. With 
regard to those higher-placed_ affections, recognising their dignity and 
their unlimited influence, acknowledging in some respects a certain 
etiquette and display—a monarch, not only did not act in a manner 
derogatory to his high position, but found even a repose, security, 
mystery, and general respect therein. On the contrary, in the debase- 
ment of a common or humble attachment, he would encounter, even 
among his meanest subjects, carping and sarcastic remarks ; he would 
forfeit his character of infallibility and inviolability. Having descended 
to the region of petty human miseries, he would be subjected to its paltry 
contentions. In one word, to convert the royal divinity into a mere mortal 
by striking at his heart, or rather even at his face, like the meanest of his 
subjects, was to inflict a terrible blow upon the pride of that generous 
‘nature. Louis was more easily captivated by vanity than by affection. 
Madame had wisely calculated her vengeance, and it has been seen, also, 
40—2 


628 | THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. 


in what manner she carried it out. Let it not be supposed, however, tha 
Madame possessed such terrible passions as the heroines of the Mid 
Ages possessed, or that she regarded things in a sombre point of vie 
on the contrary, Madame, young, amiable, of cultivated intellect, coqu 
tish, loving in her nature, but rather from fancy, or imagination, or ambi 
tion, than from her heart—Madame, we say, on the contrary, inaugurated 
that epoch of light and fleeting amusements which distinguished the hunt 
dred and twenty years which intervened between the half of the cove 
teenth century and the three-fourths of the eighteenth. Madame saw, 
therefore, or rather fancied she saw, things under their true aspect. She 
knew that the king, her august brother-in-law, had been the first to rid 
cule the humble La Valliére, and that, in accordance with his usual custom, 
it was hardly probable he would ever love the person who had excited hi 
laughter, even had it been only for amoment. Moreover, was not her 
vanity present, that evil influence which plays so important a part in that 
comedy of dramatic incidents called the life of a woman ; did not her 
vanity tell her, aloud, in a subdued voice, in a whisper, in every variety of 
tone, that she could not, in reality, she a princess, young, beautiful, and 
rich, be compared to the poor La Valli¢re, as youthful as herself, it is true, 
but far less pretty certainly, and utterly poor? And surprise need not be 
excited with respect to Madame ; for it is known that the greatest charac: 
ters are those who flatter themselves the most in the comparison they 
draw between themselves and others, between others and themselves. It. 
may perhaps be asked what was Madame’s motive for an attack whick 
had been so skilfully combined ? Why was there such a display of forces, 
if it were not seriously the intention to dislodge the king from a heart that. 
had never been occupied before, in which he seemed disposed to take 
refuge? Was there any necessity, then, for Madame to attach so great 
an importance to La Valliére, if she did not fear her? Yet Madame did 
not fear La Vallitre in that point of view in which an historian, who knows 
everything, sees into the future, or rather the past. Madame was neither 
a prophetess nor a sybil; nor could she, any more than another, read” 
what was written in that terriblesand fatal book of the future, which re= 
cords in its most secret pages the most serious events. No; Madame 
desired simply to punish the king for having availed himself of secret 
means altogether feminine in their nature; she wished to prove to him™ 
that, if he made use of offensive weapons of that nature, she, a woman of 
ready wit and high descent, would assuredly discover, in the arsenal of her 
imagination, defensive weapons proof even against the thrusts of a 
monarch. Moreover, she wished him to learn that, in a warfare of that 
description, kings are held of no account, or, at all events, that kings who 
fight on their own behalf, like ordinary individuals, may witness the fall of. 
their crown in the first encounter ; and that, in fact, if he had expected to 
be adored by all the ladies of the court from the very first, from a con- 
fident reliance on his mere appearance, it was a pretension which was 
most preposterous, and insulting even for certain persons who filled a 
higher position than others, and that a lesson being taught in season to 
this royal personage, who assumed too high and haughty a carriage, would 
be rendering him a great service. Such, indeed, were Madame’s reflec- 
tions with respect to the king. The event.itself was not thought of And 
in this manner; it will have been seen that she had exercised her influence 
over the minds of her maids of honour, and, with all its accompanying 
details, had arranged the comedy which had just been acted. The king 
was completely bewildered by it ; for the first time since he had escaped 


ROVAL PSYCHOLOGY. | 629 
| . 
‘om the trammels of M. de Mazarin, he found himself treated as a man. 
. similar severity from any of his subjects would have been at once re- - 
isted by him. Les pouvoirs croissent dans la lutte. But to attack women, 
) be attacked by them, to have been imposed upon by mere girls from 
he country, who had come from Blois expressly for that purpose, it was 
he depth of dishonour for a young sovereign full of that pride which his 
‘ersonal advantages and his royal power inspired him with. There was 
‘othing he could do—neither reproaches, nor exile—nor even could he 
how the annoyance he felt. To show any vexation would have been to 
dmit that he had been touched, like Hamlet, by a sword from which the 
yutton had been removed—the sword of ridicule. To show vexation to- 
vards women, what humiliation ! especially when these women in question 
jave laughter on their side, as a means of vengeance. Oh ! if, instead of 
eaving all the responsibility of the affair to these women, one of the cour- 
iers had had anything to do with the intrigue, how delightedly would 
Louis have seized the opportunity of turning the Bastille to a profitable 
wecount! But there again the king’s anger paused, checked by reason. 
To be the master of armies, of prisons, of an almost divine authority, and 
‘o exert that almost almighty power in the service of a petty grudge, would 
be unworthy not only of a monarch, but even of a man. It was necessary, 
therefore, simply to swallow the affront in silence, and to wear his usual 
gentleness and graciousness of expression. It was essential to treat 
Madame as a friend. As a friend!... Well, and why not? Either 
Madame had been the instigator of the affair, or the affair itself had found 
her passive. If she had been the instigator of it, it certainly was a bold 
measure on her part ; but, at all events, it was but natural in her. Who 
was it that had sought her in the earliest moments of her married life, to 
whisper words of love in her ear? Who was it that had dared to calcu- 
late the possibility of committing a crime against the marriage vow—a 
crime, too, still more deplorable on account, of the relationship between 
them? Who was it who, shielded behind his royal authority, had said to 
this young creature, “ Be not afraid, love but the King of France, who is 
above all, and a movement of whose sceptred hand will protect you 
against all attacks, even from your own remorse ?”? And she had listened 
to and obeyed the royal voice, had been influenced by his ensnaring tones ; 
and now that she had, morally speaking, sacrificed her honour in listening 


to him, she saw herself repaid for her sacrifice by an infidelity the more 
humiliating, since it was occasioned by a woman far beneath her own 
Station in the world. 

- Had Madame, therefore, been the instigator of the revenge, she would 
have been right. If, on the contrary, she had remained passive in the 
whole affair, what grounds had the king to be angry with her on that 
‘account? Was it for her to restrain, or rather could she restrain, the 
chattering of a few country girls? and was it for her, by an excess of zeal 
which might have been misinterpreted, to check, at the risk of increasing 
it, the impertinence of their conduct ? All these various reasonings were 
like so many actual stings to the king’s pride ; but when he had carefully, 
qn his own mind, gone over all the various causes of complaint, Louis was 
surprised, upon due reflection—in other words, after the wound had been 
dressed—to find that there were other causes of suffering, secret, unen- 
durable, and unrevealed. There was one circumstance which he dared 
not confess, even to himself ; namely, that the acute pain from which he 
was suffering had its seat in his heart. The fact is, he had perinitted his 
heart to be gratified by La Valli¢re’s innocent confession. He had dreamed 


630 THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


of a pure affection—of an affection for Louis the man, and not the sové 
reign—of an affection free from all self-interest ; and his heart, mo 
youthful and more simple than he had imagined it to be, had bound 
forward to meet that other heart which had just revealed itself to him bt 
its aspirations. The commonest thing in the complicated history of lov: 
is the double inoculation of love to which any two hearts are subjected 
the one loves nearly always before the other, in the same way that thi 
latter finishes nearly always by loving after the other. In this way thi 
electric current is estabiished, in proportion to the intensity of the passior 
which is first kindled. The more Mademoiselle de la Valliére had showr 
her affection, the more the king’s affection had increased. And it wa: 
precisely that which had surprised his majesty. For it had been fairly 
demonstrated to him that no sympathetic current had been the means ® 
hurrying his heart away in its course, because there had been no confes: 
sion of love in the case—because the confession was, in fact, an insult to- 
wards the man and towards the sovereign ; and finally, because—and the 
word, too, burnt like a hot iron—because, in fact, it was nothing but a 
mystification after all. This girl, therefore, who, in strictness, could not 
lay claim to beauty, or birth, or great intelligence—who had been selected 
by Madame herself, on account of her unpretending position, had not only 
aroused the king’s regard, but had, moreover, treated him with disdain— 
he, the king, a man whg, like an eastern potentate, had but to bestow ¢ 
glance, to indicate with his finger, to throw his handkerchief. And, sincé 
the previous evening, his mind had been so absorbed with this girl tha 
he could think and dream of nothing but her. Since the previous even 
ing his imagination had been occupied by clothing her image with al 
those charms to which she could not lay claim. In very truth, he whon 
such vast interests summoned, and whom so many women smiled upol 
invitingly, had, since the previous evening, consecrated every moment o 
his time, every throb of his heart, to this sole dream. It was, indeed 
either too much, or not sufficient. The indignation of the king, making 
him forget everything, and, among others, that Saint-Aignan was present 
was poured out in the most violent imprecations. True it is that Saint: 
Aignan had taken refuge in a corner of the room; and, from his corner 
regarded the tempest passing over. His own personal disappointmen’ 
seemed contemptible, in comparison with the anger of the king. Hecom 
pared with his own petty vanity the prodigious pride of offended majesty. 
and, being well read in the hearts of kings in general, and in those o 
powerful kings in particular, he began to ask himself if this weight o 
anger, as yet held in suspense, would not soon terminate by falling upot 
his own head, for the very reason that others were guilty, and he innocent 
In point of fact, the king, all at once, did arrest his hurried pace; and 
fixing a look full of anger upon Saint-Aignan, suddenly cried out : “ Anc 
you, Saint-Aignan ?” 
Saint-Aignan made a sign, which was intended to signify, —“ Well 
sire ?”? -——“ Yes ; you have been as silly as myself, I think.” ~ | 
“Sire,” stammered out Saint-Aignan. : 
You permitted yourself to be deceived by this shameful trick.” | 
“Sire,” said Saint-Aignan,. whose agitation was such as to make him 
tremble in every limb, “let me entreat your majesty not to exasperate 
yourself. “Women, you know, are creatures full of imperfections, createc 
for the misfortune of others ; to expect anything good from them is te 
require them to do impossibilities.” 


The king, who had the greatest consideration for himself, and who hae 


ROYAL PSYCHOLOGY. 631 


“un to acquire over his emotions that command which he preserved 
r them all his life, perceived that he was doing an outrage to his own 
nity in displaying so much animation about so trifling an object. 
Jo,” he said, hastily ; “you are mistaken, Saint-Aignan ; I am not 
ary - I can only wonder that we should have been turned into ridicule 
cleverly and with such boldness, by these two young girls. I am par- 
ularly surprised that, although we might have informed ourselves accu- 
ely on the subject, we were silly enough to leave the matter for our 
n hearts to decide upon.” 

“The heott, sire, is an organ which requires positively to be reduced 
its physical functions, but which must be deprived of all its moral 
actions. For my own part, I confess, that when I saw that your majesty’s 
art was so taken up by this little ‘ 

“My heart taken up! I !—my mind might, perhaps, have been so ; 
t, as for my heart, it was—— »” Louis again perceived that, in order to 
nceal one blank, he was about to disclose another. “ Besides,” he added, 
[ have no fault to find with the girl. I was quite aware that she was in 
ve with some one else.” ——“ The V icomte de Bragelonne. I informed 
yur majesty of the circ umstance.” 

“You did so ; but you were not the frst who told me. The Comte de 

Fére had solicited from me Mademoiselle de la Vallitre’s hand for his 
in. And, on his return from England, the marriage shall be celebrated, 
nce they love each other.” 

“TI recognise your majesty’s generosity of disposition in that act” 

“ So, Saint-Aignan, we will cease to occupy ourselves with these matters 
ay longer,” said Louis. 

“Ves, we will digest the affront, sire,” replied the courtier, with resigna- 
ation. “ Besides, it will be a very easy matter to do so,” said the king, 
hecking a sigh. ' 
“ And, by way of a beginning, « will set about the composition of an 
pigram upon all three of them. I will call it ‘The Naiad and Dryad,’ 
thich will please Madame.” 

“ Do so, Saint Aignan, do so,” said the king, indifferently. “ You shall 
ead me your verses ; they will amuse me. Ah! it does not signify, Saint- 
\ignan,” added the king, like a man breathing with difficulty, “the blow 
equires more than human strength to support in a dignified manner.” As 
he king thus spoke, assuming an air of the most angelic patience, one of 
he servants in attendance knocked gently at the door. Saint-Aignan 
Jrew aside, out of respect. “Come in,” said the king. The servant 
sartially opened the door. What is it?” inquired Louis. 

The servant held out a letter of a triangular shape. “ For your majesty,” 
he said. “From whom ?” 

“1 donot know. One of the officers on duty gave it me.” 

_ The valet, in obedience to a gesture of the king, handed him the letter. 
The king advanced towards the candles, opened the note, read the signa- 
ture, and uttered a loud cry. Saint-Aignan was sufficiently respectful not 
to look on ; but, without looking on, he saw and heard all, and ran to- 
wards the king, who with a gesture dismissed the servant. “ Oh, Heavens of 


said the king, as he read the note. 

- “Ts your majesty unwell ?” inquir 

arms.——“ No, no, Saint-Aignan—rea 
Saint-Aignan’s eyes fell upon the signature. 

claimed. ‘Oh, sire !” 


> 


“Read, read!” And Saint-Aignan read :— 


‘ 


ed Saint-Aignan, stretching forward his 
d 1!” and he handed him the note. 
“La Vallitre !” he ex- 


>, <* 


oe 


632 «S| Ss THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE, 


“Forgive my importunity, sire ; and forgive, also, the absence of fhe 
formalities which may be wariting in this letter. A note seems to fie! 
more speedy and more urgent than a despatch. I venture, therefore 
address this note to your majesty. I have returned to my own rogm, 
overcome with grief and fatigue, sire; and I implore your majestyifo 
grant me the favour of an audience, which will enable me to confess fhe 
truth to my sovereign. “Signed, “ LOUISE DE LA VALLIERE,® 


“Well?” asked the king, taking the letter from Saint-Aignan’s hang, 
who was completely bewildered by what he had just read. 

“Well !” repeated Saint-Aignan. 

“What do you think of it ?,——“ I hardly know.” 

“ Still, what is your opinion ?” 

“¢ Sire, the young lady must have heard the muttering of the thunder, and 
has got frightened.” -—“ Frightened at what?” asked Louis with dignity, 

“Why, your majesty has a thousand reasons to be angry with fhe 
author or authors of so hazardous a joke ; and, if your majesty’s memofy 
were to be awakened in a disagreeable sense, it would be a perpetual 
-menace hanging over the head of this imprudent girl.” 

“ Saint-Aignan, I do not think as you do.” 

“ Your majesty doubtless sees more clearly than myself.” 

“Well ! I see affliction and restraint in these lines, and more partidie 
larly since I recollect some of the details of the scene which took plate 
this evening in Madame’s apartments——” The king suddenly stopped 
leaving his meaning unexpressed. 2 

“In fact,” resumed Saint-Aignan, “ your majesty will grant an audien 
nothing is clearer than that in the whole affair.” 

“T willdo better still, Saint-Aignan.” 

“* What is that, sire ? ——*“ Put on your cloak.” 

“ But, sire ——” ; 

“ You know the room where Madame’s maids of honour are lodged 2? 

* Certainly.” | : 

“You know some means of obtaining an entrance there ?” 

“ As far as that is concerned, I do not.” 

“ At all events, you must be acquainted with some one there.” 

“Really, your majesty is the source of every good idea.” 

“You do know some one, then. Who is it ?” 

“TI know a certain gentleman who is on very good terms with a certair 
young lady there.” : 8 

“One of the maids of honour ??—-—“ Yes, sire.” 

“With Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente, I suppose ?’ said the kin 
laughing. ‘Unfortunately, no, sire ; with Montalais.” 

“What is his name ?’——“ Malicorne.” 

‘And you can depend on him ?” % 

“I believe so,-sire. He ought to have akey of some sort in his possession; 
and if he should happen to have one, as I have done him a service, why 
he will return it.” 

“ Nothing could be better. Let us set off, then.” The king threw his own 
cloak over Saint-Aignan’s shoulders, asked him for his, and then both went 
out into the vestibule. 


END OF VOL. I. 


CILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD, SURREY. 


PRESERVATIG’: EW 


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